


Behind the Curtain

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF John, Canon-Typical Violence, Consulting Criminal John, Gen, Gratuitous Swearing, M/M, Not Britpicked, Organized Crime, Slow Build, Unbeta'd, criminal!John, dark!john
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-13 11:23:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 33,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3379703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Recently invalidated John Watson is in need of a flatshare in London while he attempts to regain his civilian bearings, in addition to making sure his vast criminal organization is not unveiled by snooping government agencies and law enforcement. Easier said than done with a consulting detective as his new flatmate and his protege Jim Moriarty determined to bask in the spotlight.</p>
<p>Crossposted on FF.net.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

John Watson was nineteen and in London as a medical student at St. Bart’s. He’d found a rundown flat off campus that was affordable on a working salary, and the pub he bartended on weekends—and occasionally during the week if he had time—paid him a bit extra for overlooking the shady business transactions going on in the back rooms. If anything, life was looking up for John.

Or had been anyway. Nothing like getting the shit kicked out of him behind a pub to ruin a good month in London.

Not that John hadn’t been in a fight before (you should’ve seen his high school rugby team), but when it was four against one with John a head or so shorter than the shortest of his assailants…He was pretty resigned to getting his arse handed to him. But hell if he was going down without a fight. At least, that had been the plan before Big Guys 1 and 2 grabbed his arms so 3 and 4 could use him as a punching bag. So far, John figured he had at least a mild concussion, two black eyes, and a pair of bruise ribs that might’ve actually been broken. Oh, and let’s not forget the cut across his thigh where the knife that barely missed his femoral artery and his quite-possible-broken right foot from where Big Guy 3—he thought it was that one at least. They had all started looking the same after the first couple punches—had stomped on it.

Bleeding and watching all the pretty dancing colours across his field of vision a little _too_ happily, John tried to remember how exactly he’d ended up in this position. He vaguely recalled a pair of smashed pint glasses, a stallion, and something about his sister. Wait…Harry. Oh god, not again. Eighteen months without getting dragged into something by his twenty-four year old sister, was that too much to ask?

“I don’t suppose you could just forget about Harry?” he slurred, slowing down in an effort to sound more sophisticated. Not that it really helped. “I mean really, she breaks things over my head and spits on me all the time, but do you see me going after her with a cricket bat?” Speaking of which, where had that thing gotten to? Oh, was _that_ what had given John the splinters in his left arm? No right arm. No, it was the left one. He was sure it was the left one. Wait, was he left or right-handed?

Didn’t really matter since he kind of needed both his arms if he was going to be a surgeon. He was studying to be a surgeon, right?

Damn Harry. She just couldn’t leave him well enough alone, could she? Not since he’d kissed Scarlet Weatherby in primary school behind the slide.

John’s head snapped back as Big Guy 3 popped him one in the nose, and he groaned as the cartilage gave. Just fucking perfect. He was going to end up with a crooked nose because there was no way in hell he was going to be able to set it with the shape his hands were in, and he doubted that these tough guys would be kind enough to drop him off at the closest A&E after they’d finished with him.

Big Guy 4 was just pulling his fist back for another rib-cracking hit when the back door to the Pasties & Ale opened. John’s four assailants froze, presenting a tableau of violence for the newcomer to see.

The newcomer was older, late thirties at the least, and greying at the temples. He scrutinized them with sharp black eyes for a moment before spitting out his cigarette, grinding out the dull flame under the heel of expensive leather shoes. “And what do you boys think you’re doin’ to my bartender there?”

John nearly protested that he’d never seen the man before (and he certainly wasn’t the owner John had met during his very brief interview), but reason broke through the concussed haze in his mind in time to snap his mouth shut and just be thankful for the rescue.

In a flurry of movement that left John dizzy, the quartet of brutes dropped John and fled down the alley.

“Oh, well, thanks for setting me down gently,” he groused after them. “You blokes’re bloody lovely.”

The mystery man knelt in front of John and held up one hand. “How many fingers am I holding up, kid?”

“No clue,” John responded without looking. “Already know I’ve got a concussion, and a broken nose. If you could just help me to my feet, I think I can stumble my way to the A&E a few blocks over.”

The man paused for a moment. “You’re a different kind of man, John. Smarter than you look at least.”

He had to fight against his urge to snort. Best not to aggravate his nose. “I look like I got the shit beaten out of me. Mm, think you could set my nose? Hate to lose my good looks—my only real redeeming quality.”

The other man chuckled, but obliged John, who grunted in pain.

“I could use a man like you: capable, but not without a bit of humour. If you don’t mind getting your hands dirty for a bit.”

“Hard to get them dirtier than they already are.”

The aging man paused in lifting John, asking, “How so?”

“Manslaughter—murder if you tilt your head right and squint—at sixteen,” he replied drowsily. “No one really investigated, and who’d think that the village golden boy could get himself a gun? Then there was the still rig me and a couple of the rugby boys had out in the woods. Danny Tucker swore I was the mastermind—which I was—but they others knew I’d kneecap them if they said anything and the coppers never even sent a cursory glance my way in the investigation.” John opened his mouth to regale more tales of his misspent youth, but stopped abruptly as he realized that there was a reason most of what he was saying had never been said before. “Uh...that was all the concussion. None of that ever actually happened. At all. My brain’s been scrambled.”

The other man chuckled, but let the slip slide. Still, he tucked a hastily scribbled on business card into the back pocket of John’s jeans before leaving him in the capable hands of the A&E nurses.

John found it the morning after, and stared at the card that read simply:

_You know where to find me._

_–Charlie Willis_

)

Twenty-four year old John Watson leaned against the back wall of a dimly lit pub, smoking a cigarette that made his medical mind cringe and sipping at the glass of scotch in his other hand. But he wasn't golden boy Watson right now, studying to be a doctor on scholarship at St. Bart's. He was a man without a name—someone who knew a little too much and didn't mind getting his hands dirty every now and again. Not that he'd actually needed to get his hands dirty for the past few years, but there was just something about having a piece of cold steel in hand that put John at ease.

More than one prospective client had considered him a psychopath and, sometimes, John thought they were right. But then he'd be on his rounds at Bart's and remember that crime wasn't all he was. He saved more lives on average than he took. Still, something about spending the rest of his life in a safe little hospital cutting people open to save them, and sewing them back up seemed boring.

RAMC would definitely do him some good. There was just something special about gunfire and working under heavy pressure that just the thought made his blood sing with a faint rush of adrenaline.

John flicked his cigarette butt into the bin, downing the last of his scotch as his contact entered the pub. He eyed the tall, well-muscled man for a moment, cataloguing everything. Roger Moore was a downtown sort of bloke with a well-worn leather jacket covered with stitched rips (originally from knives no doubt), faded jeans, and heavy boots. His hair was a dull sort of brown that matched his eyes, trimmed short enough for John to see a bit of a scar that started just above his right ear and curved around the back of his skull for three or four inches. Moore, in his own way, was almost as unassuming as John was.

Too bad John had to kill him. Don't get him wrong: Moore was a decent enough bloke, but he was a mouthy one. Couldn't keep a secret to save his life and John couldn't have a man like that in his organization. It wasn't anything personal, but it had to be done, especially with how fast the Watson Underground was expanding. His network now had footholds in most of Europe, a handful of contacts in Russia, the Middle East, Africa and Australia; and talks starting in Asia, namely Thailand, Indonesia, and China.

If this kept up, he'd control most of the crime world in six years. Maybe a little longer depending on how the army panned out and how long it took him to find a competent but not ambitious second.

John set those musings aside as he smiled amiably at Moore, grabbing him in a brief, one arm hug. "Moore, haven't seen you in ages!"

"We saw each other just last month, Fred, don't tell me you're going senile already," he returned and John did his best not to wince at the alias. Definitely hadn't been one of his better identities.

With what he hoped was a good-natured laugh, John unobtrusively steered his contact towards the rear exit of the pub. "Whatever you say, mate. Now, about that job in Sussex I was tellin' you about…"


	2. Chapter 1

John Watson, above all else, abhorred civilian life. It was so damn bloody _boring_ compared to the thrill of Afghanistan, of stitching up soldiers who had been blown to bits while trying not to get shot himself. And all he had to show for his service was a scar and a medical discharge. At least the Taliban sniper who’d shot him had been disposed of shortly afterwards so John couldn’t say he was _too_ upset about the whole incident.

Which was a complete and total lie of course. He still had nightmares of getting shot, all the lives he couldn’t save, and boys bleeding out in his arms. They mingled, mixed, and twisted with memories of different times, dark things John tried not to think too hard about. And that lovely therapist of John’s wanted him to write about it. Yeah, he had a bloody therapist, PTSD, a tremor in his left hand, a psychosomatic limp, a hole in his shoulder, and a bloody _blog_ now. John had replied wearily, “Nothing happens to me.” And it was true, if “anymore” was tacked on the end.

Thanks to his time as an army doctor in Afghanistan followed by months of recovery in a military hospital, John’s right hand had taken over managing most of his network: various contacts, clients, contracts, and criminals all over the world. Sebastian Moran was even babysitting John’s protégé, an Irish lad by the name Jim Moriarty. Well, maybe “babysitting” wasn’t the best word, but Moran had definitely become the psychopath’s caretaker. (John didn’t believe in mixing his personal and professional lives, didn’t particularly like that Moran was, but the ex-army sniper was a big boy and knew what he was getting into. Hopefully.)

Still, John was left with nothing to his name but a crappy little bedsit and an army pension. He could barely afford to live in London anymore without dipping into his private accounts (the ones that may or may not have been on several government watch lists and maybe a few that were in places like Switzerland and the Caymans, but those were strictly for business transactions. Usually).

Just when had the good life gone to all bloody hell?

)

“A bit different from my day,” John commented lightly to Mike Stamford as he glanced around the lab at St. Bart’s. He didn’t miss the fact that there was a tall, curly haired man hunched intently over his microscope but for now paid him no mind. Most likely a teacher or employee, but John didn’t like to assume anything. That and the hairs on the back of his neck were standing at attention. That had happened to him only twice before: when he first met Charlie Wills outside the pub he frequented in Uni and just before he got shot.

John’s life was about to take a drastic turn, and not knowing how or why sent an indiscernible tremor up his spine. This, _this_ is what he’d missed about war: not knowing what happened next.

And maybe he was just a little addicted to the chaos too, because God knew how much London suffered when he got bored. (And by bored he meant bored, not clinically depressed teetering on suicidal. The last time he’d been bored had been a few years back while on leave and, well, the Yard still talked about finding their evidence locker filled with tea and biscuits. The Chief Superintendent hadn’t enjoyed his wife’s chihuahua in his desk drawer as much as John and Moran had either.)

John was drawn from his thoughts as the man bent over the microscope spoke.

“Mike, can I use your phone? Mine’s got no service.”

“What’s wrong with the landline?” asked Mike.

“I prefer to text.”

Mike sighed. ”Sorry, it's in my coat.”

“You can use mine,” John offered, holding out his personal mobile. (His identical work mobile was back at the bedsit with his gun. Moran would track him down if anything that required his immediate attention cropped up. Because, really, what else were those bloody CCTV cameras good for?)

“Afghanistan or Iraq?”

It took quite a bit to startle John, but that question was a sure fire way to throw him off balance. And get his guard up. “Afghanistan. I’m sorry, how did you—?”

“How do you feel about the violin?”

 _Besides wanting to hit you over the head with one right now for deflecting?_ John ranted internally for a moment, outwardly showing confusion. Because if this man knew about his military service, who knew what else he might now, and John wasn’t fond of people knowing his business. A crime lord could only hide so much and be so removed after all, even if he did have a pretty little figurine sitting on his throne.

He settled for asking, “I'm sorry, what?”

“I play the violin when I'm thinking, and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other,” the other man drawled as if the answer was obvious.

 _Dear God, it’s Jim all over again._ Except Jim’s voice had the disconcerting habit of becoming high and cheery when he mocked and disparaged. He also liked to address himself as “Daddy” for some bizarre reason. Moran had most likely explained it to John at some point, but the doctor had since forgotten. (Because John really didn’t need to know all about Jim’s daddy issues unless it was somehow relevant to surviving in London on an army pension or running an international crime syndicate.)

And he was supposed to be reacting, John realized belatedly. He turned to Mike and asked, “You told him about me?” Because that was a much more comforting conclusion than a sociopathic Jim. (Actually, a sociopathic Jim would be a perfect flatmate if he didn’t have the ability to tell someone’s life story by their shoes, the attention span of a four year old on a sugar high, and the impulse control of kleptomaniac.)

“Not a word,” Mike replied with a small smile.

 _Damn it_. “Then who said anything about flatmates?”

And if John hadn’t been convinced before that he’d found Jim’s good twin (because Jim was the evil twin, hands down) the man’s observations were more than enough to prove it. Normally, John would’ve jumped at the chance to share a flat with someone that bloody brilliant and still a bit sane, but there’d been one too many close calls with the Organization lately, and he couldn’t risk slipping up and allowing someone to have information that could be used against him. And a place in central London? He couldn’t afford to live in central London on an army pension, even with a flatmate.

“Is that it?” John asked sharply. Hopefully he could be abrupt enough, suspicious enough, to get this man to rethink his offer.

The man paused at the door, turning back to look at John. “Is that what?”

“We’ve only just met and now we’re going to look at a flat?” That really should’ve been enough to at least make someone realize they’d forgotten what their mother had told them about strangers and social etiquette.

Instead this man asked, “Problem?”

“We don’t know a thing about each other. I don’t know where we’re meeting. I don’t even know your name.”

The man barely took a breath before he launched into John’s history, hitting the highlights and overlooking the shadows entirely, except for the part about being invalided home. Once done, he headed for the door again, stopping to lean back and declare, “The name’s Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street,” with a wink at the end.

John gave Mike a pleading look, who just smiled back cheerfully. “Yep, he’s always like that.”

All John could think was _Good God_.

)

Returning to the bedsit, John hobbled to the bed and sat down, the day’s fascinating encounter at Bart’s still running through his head. His eyes caught on his laptop (his new one since the old one had been “accidentally” sacrificed to Jim while John was overseas), and he contemplated it for a moment before standing and hobbling over to it. John lifted the lid and powered on the laptop. He opened a browser, selected a search engine, pecked out the name of his potential flatmate, and waited. John didn’t expect much: maybe a mostly blank Facebook page or some publications in a scientific journal.

He didn’t expect a website. (Well, he did. He just didn’t expect the Science of Deduction.) And while the bit about observations leading to the detective’s outlandishly accurate conclusions piqued his interest, John was also a tad uneasy. Even if Jim hadn’t sussed him out yet—they’d only met the once after all and John hadn’t really introduced himself—it would be impossible to live with a man (a _detective_ ) who could tell a pilot by his thumb and a computer program by his tiepin and still be able to keep his identity as a down-on-his-luck ex-army doctor. Not that John _wasn’t_ a down-on-his-luck ex-army doctor—that just wasn’t _all_ he was.

After a moment of consideration, John dug out his work mobile from behind his gun and punched in Moran’s number. He half expected the call to go to voicemail, crime never waited after all, but Moran picked up after four rings with a distracted, “What’s up, Boss?” There was a faint crash, followed by muttered cursing.

“Is everything alright there, Moran?”

“Yessss,” he hissed in reply, biting out another curse. “Jim, psychotic little arse he is, brought home a lynx. A fucking _lynx_ , like the ones I used for target practice in Afghanistan. I’m not sure if he’s trying to domesticate it or if this is the consequence of some second or third psychotic break or something, but—goddamn it!—I’m not allowed to kill it. And at this rate, there won’t be anything left un-broken in the flat when Jim gets home. And you know he gets stroppy when the flat’s a mess, even if _he_ is the one who made it in the first place. But that’s my personal life and can be dealt with later,” Moran recited the Organization’s most important doctrine with a heavy sigh. “What do you need?”

John was almost rethinking even _considering_ the offer for a flatshare. But if he didn’t cut costs or come into some money soon, he’d have to start skipping meals and actually find work (the absolutely dull kind that involved sniffles, coughs, and colds). “I want you to look someone up for me.”

“You got a name?”

“Sherlock Holmes. Address 221B Baker Street.”

“That’s central London, and...” Moran paused for a moment. “I think that’s the building next-door. Mrs. Turner is friends with the owner, a Mrs. Martha Hudson. Widow of at least 50, no criminal record, and she makes the most delightful scones; her husband though—deceased—had a rap sheet a mile long.”

“Do you think it’ll be a problem?” Not that John would do anything to the woman if that was true. She was probably about the age his mum would’ve been and it wasn’t as if he absolutely had to move into Baker Street. If worst came to worst, he’d find a small place away from London, have Moran set up a new account under a false name, and then come back in a few years.

“As long as you don’t show up on her doorstep with a machete or an automatic and a murderous glint in your eye, I doubt it. She certainly doesn’t mind me. Is this Holmes a potential target or a potential asset?”

“Neither,” John replied honestly. “Potential flatmate.”

“I didn’t know you swung that way, Boss.”

Only Moran would be able to get away unscathed with that kind of crack. Anyone else would be bleeding out in a ditch. Slowly. Oh so very slowly. “I’m living on crackers at this point, Moran, and while you and Jim can draw from any number of accounts under a thousand different names here in London, I can’t just suddenly inflate my bank accounts. Someone, somewhere, would notice if a little old veteran like me suddenly had nicely lined pockets, and it wouldn’t be a friendly sort of attention.”

“You could always just win the lottery you know,” Moran said causally. “Jim’s been telling me the winning numbers for months, but I never use them. I mean, why bother when I already have more money than I know what to do with?”

This was one of the reasons John had fallen out of habit of constantly ringing for updates about the Organization: Moran was a sarcastic, whiny little bugger when he wanted to be (which was almost always, now that he was technically freelance) and knew that his boss wouldn’t just wake up one day and decide to kill him (yet). That and he couldn’t resist making digs about John’s choice to live by his (legal) means. “No thank you. Ring me with the important bits about Holmes before seven tomorrow evening, and then email me the full report so I can go over it in my own time.”

“Sure, Boss. Wait, while I have you on the line….” There was a brief shuffling of papers before Moran came back on. “There’s a request for aid from some Chinese smuggling ring that’s linked to a low mid-level Asia contact. Normally, I would’ve just denied it because our operations are a little hot right now, but Jim—”

“—wants to play The Lady in the Cave.” John couldn’t exactly say he was surprised.

Moran sighed. “Yeah.”

“Deny it, and if Jim wants to strop, he can and you can tell him that I said if he doesn’t like it, he can stick it up his arse. He might be getting groomed to take over, but the Organization isn’t his.”

“...I think I’ll keep most of that to myself, Boss. The sofa isn’t nearly as nice as the bed, especially when there’s a warm body in it.”

“TMI, Moran. TMI,” John replied.

Moran sneered back, “Aren’t you a bit old for text-speak?”

“Aren’t you too old for your pet psychopath?”

“He’s not a pet.”

John bit back a snort. “Yes he is. I wouldn’t have given him half the opportunity and access he has if you hadn’t insisted on making him Protégé.”

“You do realize that Interpol, CIA, Mossad, and at least another half dozen intelligence and law enforcement agencies are desperately, desperately trying to listen into and trace this call,” Moran tossed out as a non-sequitur. “MI6 and the Home Office are also getting a little bit too close for comfort. Fields and O’Patrick were found in their apartments last week, about two days apart. Plods ruled them both suicides.”

John pulled the phone from his ear, holding it between his hands as he breathed deeply (a technique his therapist insisted did wonders for anger management, when really, it made John think of staring down the sight of a rifle). After counting to ten, he said slowly into the mobile, “And you didn’t think that was important enough to warrant my attention before, oh, _now_?”

It took a moment for John to realize that the silence on the other end of the line wasn’t Moran being a frightened little squirrel. The bastard had rung off after dropping his little bomb.

One of these days, Moran was seriously going to end up in a ditch somewhere with the words “Annoying dick” carved in his forehead. Or maybe John would just be done with hiding and throw the tosser into the Thames himself. Or maybe have Jim do it. (Psychopaths were notoriously unstable after all, nearly a dime a dozen. He’d always like that lad from Siberia better anyway.)

John sighed and scrubbed at his face, wondering when exactly this had become his life.

)

The cab ride to 221B Baker Street was enough to kick up John’s unease from Faintly Anxious to Hyper Vigilant. What little Moran had found on Holmes had been inconclusive, at best. A sealed police record; rumours of a drug habit that had been banished with the help of someone who could put the fear of God into men who thought nothing of beyond profiteering off drugs and murder; and a school transcript that proved a genius IQ, the interpersonal skills of a rhinoceros, a taste for revenge, and a sense of humour that was twisted as all hell and matched John’s just a little too closely for his liking. There was also a text document from a supposedly secure Yard computer that contained a list of bets and dates. The heading was How Long Until Sherlock “The Freak” Holmes Finally Kills Someone.

John didn’t think it was a joke, not with an interdepartmental pot that exceeded a thousand pounds. What was most troubling was that John, an expert in deciphering and predicting human behaviour by a man’s walk and three minutes of speech patterns, couldn’t tell if this Sherlock Holmes was on the side of angels or playing jump rope with the dividing line.

That really, really shouldn’t be as appealing as it was. John also had the feeling that this was going to turn out similar to RAMC, and his life had been FUBAR enough in the past few months. The army doctor didn’t think Moran would forgive him if he had to avenge John’s arse again so soon. His second had barely survived working with one of their lieutenants just to get the bastard who’d shot John.

And really, he was practically painting a fluorescent bull’s-eye on his back by even meeting with a detective, mad or otherwise.

But that certainly didn’t stop John from getting out of the cab, or shaking hands with Holmes (Sherlock as the detective insisted).

Mrs. Hudson turned out to be a small, sweet old woman who at first glance could be mistaken for a generic biscuit-baking grandmother. But John knew that the brief glance she’d given him would’ve peeled away the masks and layers of a lesser criminal to show the black heart underneath.

Thank God John was the master of a whole other caste of crime. (And he’d have to do some discreet recon to see if Mrs. Hudson was really as unknowing about that pair of boneheads next-door as they thought.)

“There’s another bedroom upstairs. If you’ll be needing two,” Mrs. Hudson added as John surveyed the sitting room. He was almost distracted enough by the skull to miss the comment, but he’d gotten into the habit of multitasking as a surgeon in the middle of more shootouts than he cared to remember.

“Of course we’ll be needing two.” Unlike Moran, he wasn’t going to just up and turn gay for the first mad genius to fall in his lap. Well, second mad genius.

Mrs. Hudson smiled at him and said, “Don’t worry. We get all sorts around here.” She added in a conspiratorial whisper, “Mrs. Turner next-door’s got married ones.”

John blinked at her dumbfounded. Just when had those two found the time to actually tie the knot? And when the hell were they planning on telling _him_ that little titbit? (John would deny it later, but his inner rant over Moran being a devious little squirrel who didn’t know what the words “don’t mix business with pleasure” meant, or the word “priorities” really, had stalled his reaction to that insinuation.)

And so he was left with what sounded like a flimsy bid for normality (something he’d lost years ago behind a dingy pub in a bad part of London), which he gave up at Mrs. Hudson’s knowing look. John knew that not all battles were worth fighting and this was one he’d never been good at winning anyway.

It only occurred to John later, after Sherlock ran out with DI Lestrade and John’s outburst about his leg, that Sherlock hadn’t said a single word in the face of Mrs. Hudson’s accusations. That was either telling or intentionally misleading. And confusticate and bebother that madman for being interesting! For being rude as well! Really, what kind of manners did he have, leaving his possible-but-likely new flatmate alone in the flat with the “I’m not your housekeeper” landlady to go look at a crime scene?

And then that whirlwind of a man was back, asking John if he’s any good. There was only one answer to that: Very Good. He’d lost men in Afghanistan, countless soldiers who hadn’t made it home because they couldn’t stop the bleeding or the bullet had hit too close to something important, but as far as his men—the thugs and hit men and grifters and all the other nasties who hide in the shadows—were concerned, not one had been lost while under his scalpel.

He’d seen his fair share of trouble too, and more. The army had given him enough for a lifetime. The Organization gave him enough for eight. (Speaking in life sentences at least.)

“Want to see some more?” Sherlock asked.

John felt lightheaded, almost drunk on the promise of an adrenaline high after running on empty for so long. “Oh God yes.”


	3. Chapter 2

On the way to the crime scene (something that John had never actually been to once the police had arrived and taped everything off), Sherlock and John managed to get into the discussion of jobs. Well, Sherlock’s job as a consulting detective to be specific. And really, the veiled dig about police not consulting amateurs was really just to draw the tall, lanky git into revealing how good of a detective he really was. John wasn’t prepared in the least for the meticulous, observation-based explanation Sherlock rattled on about, seeing as even that great peacock Jim never explained how he knew _anything_.

But to be able to take all that visual input and come to such brilliant, spot-on conclusions...“That was...amazing. Truly, extraordinary.”

“Really? That’s not what people normally say.”

John couldn’t have ignored that warily hopeful look on Sherlock’s face if he’d been a mass murder (which was probably a bad comparison, but oh, well). He looked like a puppy that’d been kicked one too many times but still wanted someone to scratch his ears.

Jim had been sort of like that, back in Dublin when John had first recruited him. Head down, ears open and waiting for the chance to prove that his brilliance did more than make him a freak.

Well, John wasn’t about to give Sherlock grief just because he was brilliant. (Didn’t mean the man wouldn’t get grief for being arrogant or a git.) “What do people normally say?”

“Piss off.”

John chuckled because, honestly, that was perhaps the politest thing they said to him, not what was said most often. He’d watch the surveillance video from when Jim had first been introduced to the lieutenants. He knew how people reacted to genii who didn’t fit within a certain range of social expectations.

“You were right about everything: Harry and I not getting on, Harry leaving Clara, the drinking.”

Sherlock smirked, no doubt immensely pleased with himself for being the cleverest man in the room (well, taxi). John felt only a little bad for bursting his happy little bubble. “Harry’s short for Harriet though.”

The detective scowled. “There’s always something.”

In a whirlwind of coat tails and motion, Sherlock was striding out of the cab and John scrambled to pay the taxi fare and follow after him.

At the police tape, they’re stopped by a Detective Sergeant Donovan who called Sherlock a freak and stared incredulously at John when Sherlock called him a colleague. (John can’t really blame her for that; he had barely refrained from openly staring at Sherlock himself. John’s “colleagues” were far less than reputable than a man such as Sherlock Holmes.) John refrained from taking insult from her behaviour, but he made a mental note to do a little digging, in case circumstances arose in which her removal would be necessary.

The duo eventually made it past the sharp-tongued gate keeper, only to run into a man with greasy hair and a hooked nose on the steps of the building in which a dead woman laid. This man was apparently the Anderson on forensics DI Lestrade had referred to at the flat, wore For Men deodorant, and often had Donovan over to “scrub his floors.” John had to smother a snicker at the stricken look on the man’s face. He figured Anderson deserved it for cheating on his wife and being an arse in general.

Sherlock led John into the rundown building that housed their crime scene and, while the detective gracefully sprung up the stairs like an overgrown cat, the doctor glared balefully at his arch nemeses before slowly hobbled his way up the steps.

Detective Inspector Lestrade actually seemed to notice John this time (so maybe those half-formed plans to increase police alertness weren’t going to be necessary after all), and asked Sherlock tersely, “Who’s this?”

“He’s with me.”

John knew that tone, having heard Moran use it plenty of times after John had retreated to pulling the strings from the shadows. It meant that identity didn’t matter; he’d already been vetted as trustworthy. (Which was odd, seeing as Sherlock had only met John yesterday, and the detective wasn’t the trusting sort in the least.)

The copper, though, wasn’t impressed. “Yeah, but who is he?”

And that was how one Doctor John Hamish Watson was formally introduced to a copper for the first time as he put on one of those puffy blue crime scene suits. (Moran was going to get a kick out of this, John was sure of it.)

Detective Inspector Lestrade seemed decent enough, if a bit overworked and gruff. Sort of like an aging Golden Retriever who was starting to get tired of chasing after the ball and bringing it back only to have it thrown again. And unlike the dog, the copper rarely got an “’Atta boy.” (John made a mental note to keep an eye on him. Nothing sinister of course, just perhaps a prospective consultant. After he retired from the Met of course. As morally compromised as the John was, he wasn’t about to divide a decent man’s loyalties, even hypothetically, for a mildly probable gain. The doctor also had the feeling that he would need someone to commiserate about Sherlock with in the coming months if he did decide to move into Baker Street.)

Their introductions were cut short though as Sherlock started in on the body of a (vaguely familiar) woman in fluorescent pink named Jennifer Wilson. (The doctor considered shielding his eyes, but that would be bad form.) The detective didn’t speak as he flitted around the body, peering at her jewellery and accessories and clothing with mild interest before turning his attention briefly to the letters craved into the floor—Rache, whatever that meant—and then pulling out and fiddling with his phone.

Anderson, finally recovering from Sherlock’s barbs, made his presence known again by declaring that “Rache” was German for revenge, citing that as evidence that the victim was German.

“Thank you for your input,” the brunet detective said, closing the door in the rather daft forensic analyst’s face. John mentally applauded, but his admiration was cut short as the git of a Consulting Detective prompted the doctor to examine the body.

It had been over a decade since John had used a body to determine cause of death—he only really paid attention to that sort of detail when planning or executing murders now. He wasn’t used to being on the other side of things.

The army doctor kneeled beside the body, carefully minding his leg. He could tell the woman asphyxiated, most likely while seizing, but not much else. It wasn’t suicide though. All wrong for that. And there was something about this suicide-murder that seemed almost familiar. Well, the last three “suicides” had been in the paper and John often read the paper, but this wasn’t the vague sort of recollection of reading about something in the headlines. This was a more personal sort familiarity, like fragments of some half-forgotten scheme.

He’d have to ask Moran if they were involved, the crime lord decided as he started to explain his meagre findings. John was all too relieved, if slightly embarrassed, when Lestrade cut him off to ask Sherlock about his no doubt superior observations and conclusions. The detective rattled off about how the flamboyant clothes apparently indicated a job in the media (John could see that. That shade of pink was certainly eye-catching); her ring, polished on the inside from frequent removals but lacklustre on the outside, indicated an unhappy marriage of 10 or more years and a long string of affairs; and how her wet clothes but dry umbrella put her place of residence in Cardiff.

John followed the deductions in awe and couldn’t help but mutter, “That’s brilliant.”

“Do you know you do that out loud?” Sherlock asked evenly.

The doctor looked down at his feet. Afghanistan hadn’t really been great for his social skills, and his relationship with Moran didn’t facilitate polite conversation. “Sorry. I’ll shut up.”

“No, it’s...fine,” the detective assured, obviously unused to an amiable audience. And that was a shame, because that kind of brilliance deserved reverence, not the horrified disdain it typically garnered. (And if John was a bit more demonstrative of his awe with Sherlock than he’d ever be with Jim, well, who could blame him?)

Then Sherlock was off again, raving about the bit of mud splattered on the back of her right leg pointing to a small overnight bag, which meant she was in town only for the night. He even argued with Lestrade about its existence before lighting up with a maniac glee that unsettled John just the slightest bit. (Jim’s moods were unpredictable at best: glee could mean an overly-complex bank heist or chlorine gas in a building’s air ducts, which made John that much more paranoid.) In the blink of an eye, Sherlock and his dramatically flapping coat were gone, off to parts unknown. John kept up the best he could on a bum leg, but it was bloody difficult to go chasing some long-legged git over roofs and fire escapes with a bloody cane.

Donovan caught John as he tried to make a discreet exit. “He gets off on it, you know,” she said. “He’s a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored.”

The doctor barely refrained from pointing out that she didn’t have the qualifications to diagnosis Sherlock, let alone experience dealing with actual psychopaths. That she was looking one dead in the eye (albeit a rather mild-mannered one), and didn’t even know it. But John just looked at her bemusedly, like any average man in a fuzzy jumper would.

“One day we’ll be standing around a body, and Sherlock Holmes will be the one to put it there.”

“Do you think you point me to the main road?” he asked, politely cutting off her diatribe. “It’s a bit far for me to walk, bum leg and all.”

The police officer gave him a pitying look before pointing him towards the main road with one last warning to stay away from Sherlock. Magnanimously, he pretended not to hear her.

John managed to hobble his way to the pavement, and had gone about half a city block before he passed a phone box. It rang as he passed, and the doctor stopped for a moment to stare at it. Theoretically, it could’ve been Moran attempting to contact him, but the sniper was typically more subtle, sending out the more anonymous persons of the Organization with coded messages on paper products or encrypted flash drives. So he ignored the phone and continued on down the street. He nearly startled when the phone in a shop he passed began ringing, and then another phone box erupted into sound. John glanced around for a moment, hopeful this was meant for someone else and he’d been caught in some prank sort of prank. But there was nearly no one this late at night and no one stopped in their hurry.

After picking up the phone, John couldn’t recall much of the conversation, not after recognizing that patronizingly posh accent of the illustrious Mr. Holmes from that socialite soirée six years ago—an interesting evening, even if it had ended with a sword fight and gunfire. He wasn’t sure what was more unnerving; that Mr. Holmes apparently didn’t recognize him on the CCTV, but was still threatening him into a black sedan, or that the puppet master behind the British Government had managed to set this whole little stunt up without running afoul of Moran, or the Watson Underground’s legion of hackers.

Still, John was a good little civilian and got into the car when ordered to. Mr. Holmes’ assistant was already inside, tapping away at a mobile. She was just as lovely as he remembered, and it really was too bad they worked for opposite sides.

The ride was quiet because, while John wasn’t good about respecting boundaries, he knew better than to irritate a woman armed with stilettos (both the heel kind and the dagger kind) anymore than strictly necessary. He liked his equipment just the way it was, thank you. Which also prompted him to discreetly send a pre-emptive text to Moran detailing exactly what he wanted done to Mr. Holmes’ little government empire if John mysterious vanished, never to be heard from again. (And if England fell, well, at least Harry and his mum would be well taken care of, wherever they decided to settle afterwards. Hopefully, Moran would refrain from going into too much detail about John’s involvement, but one never knew with that psychopath-loving lunatic.)

They arrived at a sterile, abandoned warehouse that John recognized vaguely. He and Moran had used it once, years ago, when dealing with a rather persistent DCI who’d needed some delicate persuasion to leave a certain collection of cases alone. Not that the crime lord had really been much more than a eerie voice in the shadows, but, well, the warehouse, its purpose, and its layout were fairly clear to John, if nothing else. So he had an interrogation of some kind to look forward too, if not a beating and or murder. Only the loveliest things from dear Mr. Holmes.

Anthea abandoned him the second he entered the shadowy building, leaving John to squint at the darkness around the singular light to figure out how many people were actually in the warehouse. He did so hate being on this side of the theatrics. Resigned to being far too vulnerable, especially with his gun still tucked away at his bedsit (he hadn’t exactly expected to need it when checking out a flat), John moved towards the lit area with a folding chair. Mr. Holmes cut an intimidating figure half-swathed in shadows with his trusty umbrella sword and dressed in a three piece suit. His expression was carefully blank, and for the life of him, the soldier couldn’t tell if the political mastermind recognized him from their first encounter or not.

Mr. Holmes gestured to the chair. “Have a seat, John.”

“You know, I’ve got a phone,” John replied, ignoring the politely worded command and testing to see just how polite this little tête-á-tête would actually be. So far, this was politest kidnapping he’d ever had, but that could change very quickly. He asked, “Who are you?” because it was the only question that would tip Mr. Holmes’s hand without revealing the cards John held close to his vest.

The governmental prat examined the tip of his umbrella, a cursor of irritation but also an intimidation tactic with that dangerous gleam in his eye. “Merely an interested party. The leg must be hurting you, please,” he intoned firmly, “Sit down.”

“I’d rather stand, thanks,” the doctor replied, internally relaxing. While there were many “interested parties” after his organization, there would only be a party that was concerned with John, and how he ran his organization. Which was actually quite government-friendly here in Britain. Mostly because destabilizing his home government would’ve been like pissing in his water supply, and it was much more useful to plant moles instead.

“You don’t seem very afraid.”

John had faced down psychopaths and rival syndicates; Mr. Holmes preferred to keep his hands rather clean in comparison. “You don’t seem very frightening.”

“Ah yes.” The tall, dramatic prat continued, condescendingly, “The bravery of a soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don’t you think?” He looked down his nose at John (quite a ways too, as the doctor was not a particularly tall man), before changing topic. (Or did he?) “What is your connect to Sherlock Holmes?”

The crime lord stared at him, uncomprehending for several long moments before the puzzle pieces click together and John nearly slapped himself for missing something that was, in hindsight, _obvious_. Dear god, they were _brothers_. John might as well have just put a couple of bullets in his foot, or jumped off a bloody building. So much for staying off the radar and lying low. Time for some hurried and much needed backtracking. “I don’t have one. I barely know; I met him...” he trailed off, playing for time and effect. “Yesterday.” Good, distance was good.

“And since yesterday you’ve moved in with him, and now you’re solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?”

John couldn’t actually deny such incriminating evidence, but, for God’s sake, would people stop implying that he was just going to upend the last twenty-odd years of his sexuality for some random man, no matter how genius, that he just meet for the first time? They weren’t even attracted to each other for God’s sake! His phone vibrated is pocket, shaking him from a rather righteous indignation, and he checked it, British Government watching be damned.

It was from Sherlock, which was slightly odd since John hadn’t given his flatmate (possibly soon-to-be-ex-flatmate) his number.

_Baker Street._

_Come at once if convenient._

_SH_

John ignored the text, since right now distancing himself from Sherlock, and thus scrutiny, was of the highest priority. Mr. Holmes started talking again, and John reluctantly listened, trying to gleam how best to get out of this ridiculous situation so that he can fade back into the safety of obscurity. Then he realized Mr. Holmes was offering him money to _spy on his baby brother_ , which, what? Even _John_ knew better than to do that. Sure, his organization’s top hacker always had a few CCTV cameras trained on Harry, but he didn’t buy off her friends (what few there were) for information, no matter how inconsequential it seemed. That was amoral. (John was _immoral_ , which was devoid of most morals, while amoral was completely without them. In his mind at least.)

“Why?” John asked, because he just could not understand what rationale could possibly have driven such an offer. Unless it was some kind of test, whether or not he was a worthy flatmate for Sherlock. If that was the case, then he should just accept the offer and be labelled as untrustworthy then forcibly removed from any social or professional sphere that would bring him in contact with Sherlock. Which, admittedly, might include a discreet deportation, but it wasn’t like John couldn’t sneak back into the country.

“I worry about him. Constantly.” The statement was flamboyant, just slightly overplayed in a way that most people wouldn’t notice, and observant people would conclude was false sincerity, and brilliant observers, like John, would see was a true sentiment peeking out from a pile of utter mental bullshit that tried to persuade Mr. Holmes that such a thing wasn’t true in the least.

Jesus Christ. He’d wound up in some bloody drama on the telly.

“And you want to pay me to spy on him.” The doctor didn’t even try to mask his disbelief and disdain. “What are you, a jealous ex?” The jab was half-hearted, a sort of last ditch effort to see if this man even knew what morality was, let alone had it.

Mr. Holmes’s mouth twitched into a repulsed line, which was actually a relief because John could live with a logical, seemingly immoral man running the British Government—politics were a dirty business, make no mistake—but an amoral one would’ve required John to correct the leadership, which would’ve been time-consuming and very, very ugly.

“Nothing like that, I can assure you,” the politician said, voice even but with veiled disdain for the very idea that he could be accused of such sentiment. (Something John filed away to use at a later date, just in case they crossed paths again.) “But we have what you might call a...difficult relationship. So if you take up my offer, I would naturally like you to keep that between us.”

The doctor valiantly restrained the urge to snort, because difficult was the relationship between himself and Harry. But Mr. Holmes and Sherlock—God, difficult didn’t even begin to describe the kind of relationship they must’ve had. And Sherlock would most definitely resent anything that might seem to encroach on what John now suspected was hard-earned freedom.

Before John could respond, his phone buzzed again, another text from Sherlock.

_If inconvenient, come anyway._

_SH_

He scowled at the phone. He was not at anyone’s beck and call, let alone some half-mad detective. But John’s curiosity had been piqued by Sherlock’s sudden insistence on his company, after having rather abruptly ditched him. At a crime scene. (John had actually nearly killed men for less, but that was because he refused to have things escalate to the point where he’d have to put down a skilled member of his organization to prove a point.) Goddamn genius bastard.

John looked up and said simply, “No.” Both to Mr. Holmes’s question, and to his own half-baked plan to cut and run.

“I haven’t mentioned a figure—”

“Don’t bother,” the doctor cut in. He had no great need of money from dubious sources—he had that in spades—and John Watson had never been, and would never be, a rat. A spy and a plant, plenty, but never a rat.

Mr. Holmes laughed, bitterly surprised more than amused. “You’re very loyal, _very_ quickly.” He meant to be ironic, John had no doubt, but it was quite true. He was very loyal, very quickly, when he found a cause he believed it. And Sherlock Holmes? Was a compelling cause, though one John would abandon for older, more important loyalties.

He lied though, saying, “No, I’m not. I’m just not interested.”

Mr. Holmes looked at him for a long moment, before pulling a small little black book from his suit jacket. John had a similar one, but he had a feeling the contents were very, very different.

“’Trust issues,’ it says here.”

The doctor faked anxiety, but _honestly_ , like he hadn’t expected something like this the moment he got into the car. It was like Mr. Holmes didn’t know him at all. Which, John supposed, was true. Well, might as well play along, since he would no doubt be acting out this character of brave, naive, little John Watson for a while yet. “What’s that?”

“Could it be you decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?” Mr. Holmes asked.

John would’ve laughed in his face if it wouldn’t have given up the entire ruse. “Who says I trust him?”

“You don’t seem the kind to make friends easily?”

And really, John didn’t. He made acquaintances, teammates, battlefield brothers, mentors, allies, compatriots, underlings, apprentices—but friends? John never had friends, not really. “Are we done here?”

Mr. Holmes lifted one shoulder in a move that could be interpreted as a shrug. Scowling, the crime lord turned on his heel and marched towards the door. Only to be called back with an assertion that John wasn’t likely to stay away from Sherlock. Which was all too true, but that didn’t give Mr. Holmes any right to come invade his personal space to see that his left hand didn’t shake under pressure (it never had before, so obviously it wouldn’t know).

“You’re not haunted by the war, Doctor Watson,” Mr. Holmes said quietly, almost as though it were a secret, something to be ashamed of. John snatched his hand back, curling it around his cane so he wouldn’t throw a punch. “You miss it.”

The doctor bit his tongue to keep any sarcastic and snarky comments to himself. Mr. Holmes smirked a little to himself, obviously pleased to have ruffled John’s feather, and swaggered away, twirling his umbrella. “Time to choose a side, Doctor Watson.”

John watched him go for a moment, before Anthea appeared to escort him back to Baker Street.

He wondered if Mr. Holmes would ever realize that there were more sides to this game now that John had wandered his way onto the chess board. He doubted it.

)

_Could be dangerous._

_SH  
_


	4. Chapter 3

John stopped before getting back into the car, turning to Anthea. “Before Baker Street, I need to stop off somewhere first.” He gave her the address for his tiny, depressing little bedsit and she didn’t seem surprised, even after they pulled up in front of the bland building full of bedsits and broke veterans alike, though he suspected it would take a great deal to surprise her. Maybe one day, when John has decided that this quaint little drama he found himself in was too much effort to sustain, he’ll causally drop her real name, the one on her birth certificate, and see how she reacts. But it was much too early to reveal the game just yet, not when there was still adrenaline singing faintly in his blood from the confrontation with Mr. Holmes (whom he probably should refer to as Mycroft, if only to annoy him and appeal to Sherlock’s prejudice).

There was a faint skip in his step as he navigated the stairs to his bedsit, which probably was neither wise nor practical considering his limp and his cane. As a soldier and an ever-travelling criminal entrepreneur before that, John had few personal belongings and nothing of particular value that couldn’t be packed and moved within a few minutes (a practice that had come in part after the first time someone had attempted to torch his flat while John was still inside, back when he was still in Uni). He packed his clothes haphazardly, unworried about wrinkles, though he did take care with his uniforms and the singular suit that remained from the set he commissioned years ago from personal tailor in Italy (who also did Moran’s suits because, unlike some psychopaths, they were able to have class without being flamboyant little arses who needed the validation of a bloody designer label).

His gun was carefully tucked into his trousers since John highly doubted that Mycroft was unaware of it and he wasn’t about to walk into danger unarmed, but he did secret his work mobile away in his computer case with his laptop, wireless mouse, mouse pad, charging cables, a portable hard drive, and a few miscellaneous USB sticks (all carefully and professionally wiped for the moment). John had no doubt that Sherlock, Mycroft, or even Jim really, would’ve somehow managed to notice the small addition, but as fearsome and intelligent as Anthea seemed (and no doubt was), she had nothing on those mad genii. John wasn’t ashamed to admit that he was nowhere near their level as far as raw brilliance went, but he had managed to hold his own by relying on a blend of charisma, ruthlessness, instinct, and applied psychology.

John surveyed his luggage, deciding that he’d come back for it tomorrow. Normally he’d have Moran deliver it to 221B, but he was fairly certain that Mycroft had the bedsit under surveillance after Sherlock had first offered the flatshare. Thank God, John knew how to close the blinds on his window and knew a thing or two about shadows. Sherlock’s message had suggested some form of urgency, and John didn’t want to keep him waiting too long. Still, he took a moment (away from the window to give anyone watching the idea that John was still packing) to sweep for bugs, satisfied to be proven right when he found six of them scattered about, and fired off a quick text to Moran with an update and a request for information about the serial suicides. He was almost convinced they’d been behind it. Moran wasn’t going to be happy with the extra work, but he didn’t really have much of choice.

Moran may’ve had the reins for the past few years, but the Organization was still John’s, and the lieutenants would choose John over Moran any day. Which was probably because Hale was a bit _too_ attached to him, and none of the other lieutenants were stupid enough to get on Hale’s List. The only one to have survived long on that list was Jim, and only because John had been firm on his stance of Don’t Kill The Boy Wonder.

It was disturbing, sometimes, how much John felt like a parent mediating squabbles between siblings. He tried not to think about that comparison too much because, while Moran’s face would be hilarious, the thought of his second in command as a co-parent left a bad taste in John’s mind.

He tucked the mobile back into the laptop case, stuffed both the case and the bags under his bed, and headed back downstairs to the waiting car.

)

When John arrived at Baker Street, Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, head towards the window. John automatically noted how his sleeves were pushed up just above the elbow, and how the palm of his right hand curved protectively over the crook of his arm. John, as a soldier in Afghanistan, had seen his fair share of addicts and, as a crime lord, had seen quite a few more and exploited just as many as he helped to get clean. Of course, he’d known broad strokes about Sherlock’s rather sordid past, but knowing wasn’t the same as seeing. But unlike the vague disgust and pity John had felt looking at the swallow and drawn faces of those wretches, he felt a sudden, almost visceral, terror that he might’ve never met this brilliant man if Sherlock had succumbed to his addiction, and worry that a relapse might yet be on the horizon.

One that John could hopefully prevent.

If Mycroft hadn’t already taken care of all the dealers within 100 miles of London, John would’ve , if only to preserve a brilliant and precious mind. And, really, he’d been trying to keep the drug trade in London down to a minimum anyway, and only the most reliable suppliers dared set foot here, lest they be lynched in the dead of night and strung up as an example. Still, it was an unnerving enough sight to make him ask, “What are you doing?” and pray it wasn’t drugs.

“Nicotine patch,” Sherlock replied calmly, almost trance-like, eyes still closed. “Helps me think.” He removed his hand, revealing the three ( _three_ ) round nicotine patches on his arm. John fought the urge to cringe and march over to Sherlock’s prone figure and forcibly rip them off. “Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work.”

John fought back a snort. “Good news for breathing.” He would know, having kicked the unfortunate habit himself during his time in the army. Though, perhaps nicotine was safer than the adrenaline addiction he had found in the desert sands, and supplemented with caffeine whenever possible. “Most people just drink tea anyway.”

Sherlock’s hand flopped about dismissively. “Breathing is boring. Almost as boring as normal people.”

John disagreed on the first account—seeing as breathing kept you alive, and life was exciting again—but heartily agreed with the second. “So?” He waited a couple of beats, hoping for some kind of response before probing, “You asked me to come. I assumed it was important.” And exciting, exhilarating—something that would fuel his adrenaline addiction nicely.

Sherlock didn’t respond promptly, and John internally grumbled over the fact that nicotine worked as both a depressant and stimulant on the central nervous system. “Oh, yes, of course. Can I borrow your phone?”

“My phone?” John repeated bemusedly. He’d come all the way across London in the same car that had whisked him away to a warehouse where Sherlock’s brother interrogated him, and then got his gun because Sherlock said it could be dangerous, and all Sherlock wanted was a bloody _phone_? As if his own wasn’t about five feet from his person, just sitting there on the bleeding coffee table.

“Don’t wanna use mine,” Sherlock replied languidly. “Always a chance the number might be recognized. It’s on the website.”

John almost said _Then get another bloody mobile, like I did_. But that would’ve given away the game much too quickly. John had a feeling that most of his knee-jerk reactions in the near future would potentially unveil his little act sooner than he wanted. Goddamn it, he was going to be forever torn between regretting agreeing to this flatshare and wishing he had found Sherlock sooner, wasn’t he?

Instead, John retorted, “Mrs. Hudson’s got a phone.” An older one, admittedly, if it was anything like the one Mrs. Turner had.

(Moran had whinged endlessly about the trouble he had tapping her rather archaic mobile, and why couldn’t everyone just go over to smartphones so he could just hack the bluetooth instead? John had promptly offered to ship him off to some dirt poor village in Africa to sort out a dispute between some local tribes that was interfering with a nearby mining operation instead, and Moran had promptly shut up.)

Still, a perfectly serviceable phone.

“Yes, she’s downstairs. I tried shouting, but she didn’t hear.”

John stared at him in disbelief. The man who called himself a Consulting Detective, the Only One in the World, who apparently went _chasing after murderers and criminals_ on a frequent basis, was too bloody lazy to get up his arse and get a phone?

“I was on the other side of London,” John grumbled angrily. He’d been tempted by danger, and so far, the most dangerous thing about Sherlock Holmes was his overzealous, and frankly creepy, brother. Who, at this point in time, wasn’t much a threat to John at all; though there had always been a lovely little hint of controlled and distant violence in the older Holmes. He supposed if he could break Mycroft’s composure once, he could always do it again and revel in the resulting bloodbath of chaos.

“There was no hurry,” Sherlock drawled mildly.

John was tempted to find his flatmate’s stupid violin and beat him over the head with it again, but he was also a bit ashamed at how easily manipulated he was by a few text messages promising a fix. John had been under the impression that had been controlling his addiction, not that the addiction had been controlling him. Yet, already, he was becoming too pliable. He hated himself a little (which meant Ireland was going to be having a few gang problems soon no doubt) as he held out his phone with only a terse, “Here.”

Sherlock held his hand out, palm out, but made no other move to take the phone. John was annoyed enough to slap it into his hand, but not enough to throw it at his overinflated head, and then, as Sherlock clasped the mobile between two hands, John retreated a few steps in an effort to regain control of his temper. (London had recovered from his last temper tantrum, but he didn’t really feel like watching the streets run red just yet. No, he’d save that for later when Mycroft’s surveillance was more lax.)

“What’s this about anyway—the case?” John asked, hoping for a brief distraction if nothing else. And if he got information about what was happening and what was about to happen, then that just meant John could plan and strategize better. Sherlock, for all his logicalness and brilliance, seemed rather rash; more likely to rush in headlong rather than wait for the cavalry.

There was a mutter from the sofa that vaguely sounded like “Her case.”

“ _Her_ case?” Last John knew, it had been Sherlock’s case, maybe even _their_ case, since Sherlock had insisted on John as an assistant, and it didn’t seem likely for the yard to just hand off the case to someone else. Unless, of course, they were talking about Jennifer Wilson’s suitcase. Which would make a good deal of sense, but wasn’t what John had actually asked about. Still, he supposed an unexpected distraction was better than no distraction at all. (Even if this one did leave him woefully uninformed, and fumbling half-blind later.)

Sherlock finally opened his eyes, and glanced briefly at John, seeming wholly unimpressed. “Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake.”

John nodded slowly. Taking the case, rather than just dumping it with the body, had been rather stupid, or at the very least unusual.

(And, somewhere in the deep recesses of John’s mind, there was something familiar about a woman in media, married but having plenty of affairs, and a suitcase. Though not the suitcase specifically, something _in_ the suitcase. He couldn’t remember what, exactly, it had to do with anything, but there was a definite chance that it had been a job offer. Evidence that these serial suicides, however random they seemed, were actually paid murders, perhaps? It definitely hinted at meticulous planning, and John was nothing if not meticulous. Now, if only he could remember....)

“Okay, he took her case,” John said. Perhaps, if he could get Sherlock to go through his thoughts aloud, something would spark the memory into clarity. “What does that mean?”

Sherlock didn’t appear to hear it, rather muttering to himself for a moment, before holding out the phone towards John. “On my desk, there’s a number. I want you to send a text.”

John took a deep breath, and let it out slowly through his nose, gently reminding himself that he’d decided to do this, to move in with this madman, risk of exposure be damned. Killing Sherlock now would accomplish absolutely nothing, and would be quite detrimental to the Organization since he would no doubt never see the light of day again or a living soul aside from a rotation of stoic guards. That was, of course, assuming that the authorities arrived before Mycroft could secret him off to God only knew where to have him tortured for an indefinite period of time before becoming bored and simply leaving John somewhere to die horribly. It would also be a bit hypocritical to kill Sherlock after advocating to everyone in the Organization that killing the genius, no matter how annoying, was to be avoided at all costs.

John figured he was a big enough hypocrite as it was.

But still...”You brought me here,” he said tightly, knuckles white on his cane, “to send a text.”

Seemingly oblivious, or just that uncaring about John’s reaction, Sherlock repeated slowly, “Text, yes. The number on my desk.”

Temper still simpering, John stomped over to his flatmate’s prone figure and snatched the phone out of his hand. He didn’t go to the desk immediately, taking a moment to peer out the window at Baker Street in an effort to calm himself. It wouldn’t do to break his mobile in a fit of rage and have to buy a new one, as well as request Moran to acquire an identical one and have it couriered to John discreetly.

The brilliant detective finally managed to realize something was off with John’s mood, as he asked, “What’s wrong?”

John, as crime lords often do, answered with a non-sequitur, “Just met a friend of yours.”

“A _friend_?” Sherlock’s tone was bewildered, and John supposed that Mycroft very likely wasn’t a friend to anyone, except Britain.

“An enemy,” John said.

Considering their dramatics, that was likely the best answer John could give. He appeared to be right when Sherlock replied calmly, “Oh. Which one?”

 _Jesus Christ_ , John thought to himself. He’d signed over the last of his sanity for a flatshare with a detective who probably had an army of enemies. “Your _arch_ enemy.” Because, really, there had to be some sort of honour that Sherlock allowed to his brother, even if it was mostly spiteful. It probably spawned from some childhood disappointment when Sherlock realized Mycroft wasn’t all powerful or all knowing. But really, “Do people _have_ archenemies?”

John certainly didn’t have one, and he ran a bloody crime syndicate. He had annoyances by the hundreds, and thousands of enemies in the form of government officials and law enforcement, but a proper archenemy? Never.

John turned away from the window in time to see Sherlock eye him suspiciously through narrowed eyes. “Did he offer you money to spy on me?”

“Yes?”

“Did you take it?”

“No.” John wasn’t an idiot after all.

Sherlock sniffed. “Pity. We could’ve split the fee. Think it through next time.”

How had John thought that this man was Jim’s good twin? There was no good twin: just an evil twin and an annoying twat twin. At least John had some control over Jim, but Sherlock? He might as well have been herding cats. This little charade was getting tiring already, but John persevered and asked, “Who is he?” He knew of course, but he was supposed to be a bumbling little sheep.

“The most dangerous man you’ve ever met, and not my problem right now,” Sherlock murmured.

John turned away, biting his lip to keep in a snort. Mycroft, the most dangerous man John had ever met? Admittedly, if he’d just been a broken down soldier that would’ve been the truth. His moment of humour was over too soon as Sherlock badgered him about the number on his desk and the text. He hobbled over to the desk, and located the number, frowning when he recognized the name underneath it as the dead woman. He didn’t ask though, as Sherlock kept up his nagging. John snapped back at him, just barely getting the number in before Sherlock standard dictating.

“These words exactly: What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out. Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.”

He dutifully started typing, but stopped when he realized what the second half of the text was. “You blacked out?” That was certain a cause for concern, and perhaps an indicator that Sherlock was using again. Damn, John would probably have to go back to the dealers and make sure they understood they weren’t to sell to Sherlock. It seemed Mycroft’s little object lesson had begun to wear off.

“What?” Sherlock asked, brow furrowing in confusion. “No. No!” He then stood from the couch and marched towards the kitchen through the quickest route over the coffee table. When Sherlock came back from the kitchen, he carried an atrociously pink suitcase and grabbed a chair from the dining table to display the case. (And hadn’t Scotland Yard been looking for that very case earlier?)

John managed to send off the text as Sherlock unzipped the case, revealing clothes in varying shades of pink as well as a toiletry bag and battered paperback. He felt slightly stupid but he had to state the obvious, especially since he hadn’t expected Sherlock to be so far along with the investigation. “That’s Jennifer Wilson’s case.”

Damn it, he should’ve tried to smuggle his work phone out of his bedsit.

“Yes, obviously,” Sherlock snapped back.

John stared at him, wondering at the procedure. Weren’t there certain protocols for evidence, chains of custody and that sort of thing? Sherlock, however, must’ve misunderstood the silence as he said, “Perhaps I should mention: _I_ didn’t kill her.”

“I never said you did.” It would’ve been preposterous anyway, since John was fairly sure he, or at least his syndicate, was behind the murder. And he was fairly sure he’d remember if a man like Sherlock was part of his organization.

“It’s a perfectly logical assumption.”

 _Only to an idiot_. “Do people usually assume you’re the murderer?” Fear of the unknown, after all, often bred a certain kind of hatred and hasty accusations.

Sherlock seemed proud as he replied, “Now and then, yes.” Which was actually rather terrible, but that was by normal standards, wasn’t it? John didn’t think Sherlock would know normal even if you hit him over the head with the dictionary entry.

“How’d you get this, anyway?” John asked. If this really was one of his murders, he’d like to know how he could improve for the future, just in case Sherlock was put onto the trail.

“By looking.”

John was honestly starting to think that Sherlock was the most infuriating man he’d ever met. Even Jim wasn’t this much of a bloody tease. He nearly smacked himself for the thought. Secretive, evasive—that kind of tease. Not the other kind. _What the hell brain?_

They continued the conversation from there, but he wasn’t really paying attention, trying to track down the source of that rather unfortunate double entendre. He was vaguely aware of an insult to his intelligence that was smoothed away by some high-handed comment about how practically everyone was an idiot. Then he realized Sherlock had had him text someone who was quite possibly one of his syndicate’s hit men, and _really?_ What kind of idiot _texted a murderer_? That was basically bearbaiting without making sure the bear was secure!

John couldn’t help but wonder if this brilliant man would’ve survived without Big Brother’s careful surveillance and intervention. No wonder Mycroft was randomly kidnapping potential flatmates; Sherlock needed a bloody keeper. (John didn’t realize it yet, but he’d be horrified later that, out of all the poor sods in London, it was John Mycroft had decided to hand the job off to.)

His phone vibrated, flashing a withheld number. John turned to stare at Sherlock beseechingly because, contrary to what he seemed to believe, this was in no way _normal_. Not even for the leader of a criminal syndicate.

Sherlock drawled calmly, “A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found the phone, they’d ignore a text like that, but the murderer...” he trailed off dramatically, waiting until the phone stopped ringing to continue, “would panic.”

He flipped the lid of the case closed and stood, striding across the room to coat tree with his Belstaff coat. (Why the hell did a bloke that could afford a Belstaff coat need a flatshare?)

The whole day was becoming very surreal, in retrospect. John glanced at Sherlock and asked, “Have you talked to the police?” Because that was actually the logical thing to ask, if one was a civilian that had just texted a murderer and had been called back by said murderer.

“Four people are dead. There’s no time to talk to the police.”

John couldn’t really argue that. “So why are you talking to _me_?”

Sherlock took his coat from the hook, and glanced at the mantel place where there had been a skull earlier. “Mrs. Hudson took the skull.”

“So I’m basically filling in for your skull?” Which was, actually, probably the strangest thing John had ever done. And he’d filled Scotland Yard’s evidence locker with tea and biscuits for a lark. (Well, as a lark and to distract them from the bits of evidence he and Moran had nicked, but that hadn’t actually been the main point.)

The great bloody git put on his coat and said, “Relax, you’re doing fine.”

As if being a replacement skull was somehow difficult.

John just stood there staring at him thinking, _Bloody lunatic. Why did I ever agree to this?_

“Well?”

“Well what?” John countered, a bit confused.

Sherlock arched a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “Well, you could just stay and watch telly.”

John frowned, asking, “What, you want me to come with you?” It certainly hadn’t seemed like Sherlock had wanted him for company, now that he’d proven a point to DI Lestrade and John had proven himself to part of the masses. Which was pretty damn ironic, actually.

“I like company when I go out,” Sherlock explained. “And I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention, so...” He looked at John meaningfully.

John couldn’t help but smile, seeing that fiercely hidden need for an audience and an unspoken request for John to be that audience.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked, seemingly perfectly composed, though John could see a bit of nerves around the edges of his rather impeccable mask. (Oh, how fun that would be to shatter in a million pieces...)

But, as much as John would love to reply no, and just go off to catch a murderer—or perhaps help one get away—he had an act to play. “Yeah, Sergeant Donovan."

“What about her?”

“She said you get off on this. You enjoy it.”

Sherlock was all smug nonchalance as he replied, “And I said ‘dangerous,’ and here you are.”

He swanned out the door and John stared after him for a few seconds, seriously contemplating just staying in and watching telly, then hurriedly hobbled after that lanky prat with a muttered, “Damn it!”


	5. Chapter 4

John stared his plate of food, trying to wrap his head around the fact that he’d been mistaken for the date of a madman while on a stakeout to catch a murderer—and probable hit man—that was most likely part of John’s underground crime syndicate. And of course, Sherlock hadn’t said a single bloody word since before John even ordered, not even in the face of the owner Angelo’s misconception. Which, _really_ , was it that much trouble for a man, who otherwise delighted in correcting people, to just say, “We’re on a _stakeout_ , Angelo. Not something as banal as a _date_.”?

Was it sad that John had a pretty good mental impression of his flatmate after less than twenty-four hours in his company? Admittedly, it wasn’t as good as his Moran impression—which never failed to exasperate especially when John used it to bark orders at the little henchmen—but it was probably a symptom that John was perhaps just a little too in awe of Sherlock. Just a smidgen.

It didn’t help that John was still half-convinced that this was some odd adrenaline withdrawal dream or the byproduct of too much crap telly before bed. In all honesty, the whole situation seemed like something out of one of those late night crime dramas. Like how people didn’t really have archenemies.

Speaking of...“You know, people don’t have archenemies.”

Sherlock reluctantly dragged a small portion of his attention away from the building across the street. “I’m sorry?”

John had a feeling that was the closest thing he’d ever hear to apology, but trudged on regardless. “In real life. There are no archenemies in real life. Just doesn’t happen.”

He would know, because, hello? Crime lord of an international syndicate. If anyone would have an archenemy, John was pretty sure it would be him. Or maybe Jim, if Boy Wonder ever actually grew up and stopped looking at the crimes he committed as bizarre games.

“Doesn’t it?” Sherlock asked disinterestedly, turning his full attention back to the address he’d given the murderer. “Sounds a bit dull.”

Dull, John supposed, was one word for it. Safe was another, as was realistic. And he had a persona to upkeep now, didn’t he? Of poor little lost sheep John Watson. “So who did I meet?”

“What do people have, then, in their ‘real lives’?”

If that rather abrupt change in topic was any indication, it appeared that Mycroft was a bit of a button with Sherlock. Which was good to know, as well as something to avoid and manipulate in turn so that Sherlock could have a taste of his own douchery.

Still, it made John think back to the conversation he had with Mycroft in the warehouse and said, “Friends; people they know, people they like, people they don’t like...girlfriends, boyfriends—that kind of thing.”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock said distractedly, “as I was saying: dull.”

“You don’t have a girlfriend then?” John didn’t even know why he asked once the question was out in the open, but it was and he couldn’t take it back without seeming like an idiot or a crush-clumsy fool. He was emphatically not gay, and he was not going to give Sherlock any reason to question that. None at all.

Sherlock didn’t even glance away from the window. “Girlfriend? No, not really my area.”

John had pretty much given up getting any sort of straight or non-ambiguous answer at this point. He was also fairly sure that only Sherlock and Jim, and perhaps Mycroft, could manage this level of causal, seemingly sub-conscious evasion.

“A boyfriend then?” John asked. Moran’s research hadn’t indicated a preference either way, but sexuality was often an exploitable weak point. One that was handy to know if John attempted sway Sherlock towards anything—not that John, personally, would be doing the swaying. He had contacts and employees for that. It was also good to know so that John could squash any seductions attempts that were made by other parties.

Sherlock’s head whipped around like a shark scenting blood, or perhaps a rabbit scenting a predator. It was hard to tell which, though the sudden tension was barely perceivable in the set of his shoulders.

John realized a bit belatedly that there were still some men in London who didn’t look favourably on such relationships. “Which is fine, by the way.”

The less he knew about what Jim and Moran got up to and what his sister did in the privacy of her own bedroom, the better he could sleep at night, but that had very little do with the fact that they were doing it with someone of the same sex, as they were doing it _at all_. John just plain didn’t want to know. And, hey, if Sherlock was one of those people who didn’t swing either way, all the better for him. He could join Hale in the odd little corner that enjoyed blood splatter and tearing people to verbal shreds over even the suggestion of romantic and/or sexual contact of any kind. Or any sort of interpersonal contact really.

“I _know_ it’s fine,” Sherlock bit out sharply.

John tried to smile reassuringly, since words hadn’t seemed to be enough and he’d rather not deal with an overly defensive flatmate for the foreseeable future. Still, that wasn’t really an answer. “So you’ve got a boyfriend then?”

“No.”

 _Alright then,_ John thought, smiling becoming a little fixed. It wasn’t the more definite answer John had been hoping for, but at least he knew there wasn’t any real personal angle someone could use to manipulate Sherlock. Except perhaps Mrs. Hudson and DI Lestrade, but those would be easy enough to keep safe, especially since Moran seemed to genuinely like Mrs. Hudson already.

“Right,” John said, desperately trying to think of some way to keep the conversation going and gain more information. “Okay. You’re unattached then. Like me.”

(Later, when John was alone in his room, he’d look at back at this moment and wonder what the hell had happened to the smooth Casanova that managed to seduce an entire harem of women spanning three continents. Then he’d smack himself silly because, despite all appearances, _that had not been an attempted pickup line_. Goddamn it, brain.)

He cleared his throat, suddenly realizing how awkward this whole situation had become. “Fine. Good.”

John figured that was the end of the conversation and dug into his meal, ravenous from a combination of frustration from a lack of quality answers and anxiety that he’d just bollixed whatever tenuous relationship he might’ve had with his new flatmate. And had it really been less than a day since John had agreed to move it? It seemed like so much longer.

He didn’t expect in the least for Sherlock to carefully broach the topic that had just been dropped. “John, um... I think you should know that I consider myself as married to my work—” He went on, John was positive of it—could even see his lips moving—but John was struck with horror as he realized what Sherlock was rambling on about.

Before the poor man could get himself properly wound up into a full-out lecture, John interrupted with a simple but firm, “No.” He couldn’t even express how much _no_ , even. He didn’t swing that way, and as intelligent as Sherlock was, John was not actually attracted to douchery. At all. The fact that nearly the entire command structure of the Watson Underground was made of arseholes was a coincidence, really.

Still, he felt the need to be expressly clear. “No, I’m not asking. No.” John tried to make his features firm, but also open, hoping that some earnestness was reflected in his expression to soften the denial just a little. “I’m just saying, it’s _all_ fine.”

Sherlock didn’t look at him, but Sherlock’s shoulders had lost their tension. After a moment, he nodded out the window, towards something across the street. “Look across the street. Taxi.”

John glanced out the window and, sure enough, parked by twenty-two Northumberland Street was a taxi. He didn’t see how this was very notable because there were thousands if not hundreds of thousands of taxis in London, and even if the taxi seemed to be without a fare, it wasn’t actually uncommon for taxi drivers to park for a kip. Honestly, it was just a normal London taxi—wait a minute. John squinted at the cab, trying to make out any identifying marks. Wasn’t that...Yup. Well, that answered the question for sure whether or not the Organization was involved, seeing as that was one of the Organization’s cabs parked across the street. John couldn’t say for sure which one it was, or who the driver was, but he had a feeling that keeping Jennifer Wilson’s phone hadn’t been a part of the driver/hit man’s orders.

He was also pretty sure that Jim was to blame for that. Forget killing Moran for being a little shit; John was going to kill Moran’s little psychopath.

“Stopped,” Sherlock continued, not knowing that John had already identified the taxi, and the cabbie as their murderer. “Nobody getting in, and nobody getting out.”

 _No shit, Sherlock_. Which John realized was rather uncharitable since Sherlock was only working with half the puzzle, but excused his inner antagonism as he tried to figure out how to make sure that Sherlock never crossed paths with the killer cabbie, which would hopefully save them both for the time being. “That’s him?”

“Don’t stare.”

Turning away from the window, John shot his flatmate an unimpressed look. “ _You’re_ staring.”

“We can’t _both_ stare.”

John nearly threw his hands up in frustration. As if it really even mattered in the grand scheme of things if two blokes happened to be looking out a window. They could’ve been looking up at the sky or searching for an absent member of the table as far as anyone else knew. (Well, anyone who didn’t know Sherlock.)

Sherlock slid easily from his seat, grabbing his coat and scarf as he headed for the door. John, realizing his flatmate’s intentions immediately, snatched his battered leather jacket from his chair and hurried after, careful not to fall more than a step behind. Once outside, Sherlock donned his coat and tied his scarf, eyes locked on the rather unremarkable taxi. After a few moments in which the shadowy figure in the taxi shifted, the taxi pulled away from the kerb and headed down the street. Sherlock was after it immediately, leaving John to scramble after him. Sherlock narrowly avoided a car, and was carried by his momentum over the bonnet, on his feet in no time and off again on the chase.

John carefully vaulted over the bonnet after Sherlock, mindful of his shoulder, and muttered a brief apology to the driver. He couldn’t stop though, not with a detective and murderous cabbie racing ahead without him. John followed Sherlock over building rooftops then done fire escapes to street level. They almost caught up with the cab on D’Arblay Street, but it turned sooner than Sherlock expected, and they were off again.

Breathlessly caught between exhilaration and fear, John went to follow directly after the taxi, but Sherlock tugged him the opposite way. John allowed himself to be steered away, hoping for a moment that perhaps Sherlock didn’t actually have a mental map of London and was just dragging John on a wild goose chase in an effort to keep up appearances. That hope was dashed quickly and effectively as they reached Wardour Street, and John watched, horrified, as Sherlock planted himself right in the path of the taxi. He crashed into the bonnet, but rolled off easily enough, flashing a Scotland Yard ID badge at the driver after regaining his footing.

John felt oddly frozen as Sherlock rounded to the right side of the cab, anticipating violent chaos as the murderer was unveiled. He nearly sighed with relief when Sherlock headed for the door to the back seat. John joined Sherlock as he tugged open the door, only to straighten after looking inside the cab with a disbelievingly uttered, “No.”

Sherlock glanced at the passenger a second time, brow furrowed as he frowned. “Teeth, tan; what—Californian?”

John frowned to himself. He hoped his mass murdering taxi driver wasn’t just picking up random tourists with the intention of killing them. John disapproved of killing innocents after all, unless it was strictly necessary for self-protection or the protection of the Organization. Unless—hadn’t Moran mentioned something not too long ago about the assassination of some Californian businessman vacating in London with his mistress this month? John remembered something vaguely about pissing off some prominent mob boss or some cartel or some such. The bounty on the businessman’s head had been substantial though, enough for John to approve it even though his operation was close to being under the microscope soon.

Goddamn it. He’d completely forgotten to follow up with Moran about what was to be done now that O’Patrick and Fields were dead. They only had one spy left in the Home Office, and two in MI6, but if the British intelligence agencies had gotten wind of two spies in their midst, God only knew how long the others would last. But John would deal with that later, after Sherlock was off this bloody case, and he had a moment to himself to arrange a face to face meeting with Moran.

This was too important for a phone call.

John’s apparently missed Sherlock conversing with the death taxi’s passenger ( _that poor, unsuspecting man_ , John thought dryly) since Sherlock was waving the cab off with a falsely cheerful, “Welcome to London.”

“Wrong cab?”

Sherlock shot him an exasperated look. “Obviously.”

“Not the murderer then.”

“Definitely not.”

John fought the urge to smile, feeling suddenly giddy from relief and the earlier adrenaline rush. Then he saw Sherlock tossing the ID badge between his hands and had to ask, “Where’d you get that?”

Sherlock tossed him the badge, explaining, “I pickpocket Lestrade when he’s annoying. You can keep that one; I’ve got plenty at the flat.”

John looked down at the badge in his hands as the sheer absurdity of the situation dawned on him, and he couldn’t stop himself from giggling, somewhat hysterically.

Sherlock glanced at him askance. “What?”

“Nothing,” John replied immediately, fighting down the giggles. Which were undignified, really, but he was a little high on adrenaline at the moment and didn’t really care. (That happened a little more than it probably should have.) “Just: ‘Welcome to London.’”

That one statement, although directed at someone else entirely, seemed suddenly fitting for John, even though he’d already been back in London for a few months now. But this wasn’t his usual London either—not quite the civilian London with glistening tourist attractions, but also not the grimy, writhing underbelly either. This London, Sherlock’s London no doubt, was an interesting mix of the two. A middle ground John was already becoming enamoured of.

A quick glance up the street showed that the taxi had stopped again, this time to chat with a real police officer, and Sherlock asked, “Got your breath back?”

“Ready when you are,” John replied, and they took off a dead run towards Baker Street.

)

By the time they reach home—which should’ve struck John as odd, that this flat had become home so quickly—both Sherlock and John were breathing heavily, and collapsed against the wall after shucking their coats.

“That was ridiculous,” John panted. “That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

“And you invaded Afghanistan.”

John couldn’t hold in a giggle because, honestly, Sherlock didn’t know the half of it, or the fact that John had been doing quite a bit of business in the Middle East while on tour. Sherlock laughed too, not so inconsiderably high on adrenaline as well.

“That wasn’t just me,” John pointed out.

Sherlock just chuckled.

John relaxed for a moment, seeing as life was going his way for a change, but he didn’t bask in his high for too long. There were still questions to be asked and evasively answered after all. “Why aren’t we back at the restaurant?” Because, for all Sherlock knew, there was a murder hanging around there still.

Sherlock sobered a little, waving his hand dismissively. “That was a long shot anyway.”

John bit his tongue to keep from laughing. He’d been sure that his hit man had been caught for moment, on this so called ‘long shot.’ Sherlock didn’t seem to notice as he called loudly to Mrs. Hudson, “Doctor Watson will take that flat upstairs.”

“Says who?” John retorted. He had every intention to, really, but he hadn’t told the pompous arse yet, and John doubted that even Sherlock could’ve figured it out just yet.

Sherlock inclined his head towards the door. “Says the man at the door.”

John was getting irritated at his ambiguity again, but brushed it off and went to answer the door as someone knocked. He pulled open the door, only to find Angelo on the other side, carrying John’s cane.

John hadn’t even realized it was missing until he saw it in Angelo’s hands. _Bloody brilliant git._ Sherlock had managed to cure his limp faster than his therapist had been able to even discover the root of the problem.

John thanked Angelo for his cane. As he closed the street door, Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat, seeming distraught. “Sherlock, what have you done?” she asked.

Sherlock frowned bemusedly. “Mrs. Hudson?”

“Upstairs,” she said, and Sherlock was turning and bounding up the stairs before the landlady could say another word. John followed with an apologetic glance at Mrs. Hudson. (He hoped this—John always apologizing in Sherlock’s wake—wouldn’t become a habit. He had a feeling it would whether he wanted to or not though.)

Sherlock opened the sitting room door to reveal DI Lestrade lounging causally in the armchair facing the door as other police officers scoured the flat. John was immensely relieved that he’d put off moving in until the next day, and that his gun was on his person, or the fine officers of the Met might’ve found some things of interest. That wasn’t, of course, to say they wouldn’t even without John’s possessions present.

Sherlock, on the other hand, stormed over to the Detective Inspector to loom and asked quietly, “What are you doing?”

“Well, I knew you’d find the case,” Lestrade replied calmly, seemingly unperturbed by the obvious antagonism coming off of Sherlock. “I’m not stupid.”

“You can’t just break into my flat.”

John fought to keep his face blank, mostly because there was most definitely a pot calling a kettle black story somewhere in their history, if Lestrade’s expression was any judge before it smooth into smug lines. “And you can’t withhold evidence. And I didn’t _break_ into your flat.”

Sherlock gestured towards the numerous officers tossing the apartment, and demanded, “What do you call this then?”

Lestrade put on an expression of innocence that could’ve give John a run for his money, and said with a tone of sincerity, “It’s a drugs bust.”

If John was a kind man, he would’ve stayed completely out of this conversation. But John was not a nice man, and figured he was due a little compensation for Sherlock’s early behaviour. So he put on his best disbelieving expression, and gave himself over to the facade of harmless, woolly-jumper-wearing John Watson. “Seriously? This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?”

Sherlock seemed suddenly a little nervous, and John realized that those things of interest belonging to Sherlock the police might find were quite probably illegal drugs. Well. It seemed that Mycroft really was slipping, and that John needed to take corrective measures.

So many people to threaten, so little time to do it.

Still, it would serve Sherlock well to be taken down a peg. “I’m pretty sure you could search this flat all day; you wouldn’t find anything you could call recreational.”

“John,” his flatmate said quietly, crowding close so as not to be overheard. “You probably want to shut up _now._ ”

“Yeah, but come on...” He looked up at Sherlock, staring into his glasz eyes, and after a moment pretended to finally realize why he was as taunt as his violin strings. “No.”

Sherlock’s expression became bemused. “What?”

“ _You_?”

His face twisted with anger, and more than a small bit of embarrassment. “Shut up.” He spun to face Lestrade. “I’m not your sniffer dog.”

“No,” Lestrade agreed, and continued, nodding towards the kitchen, “ _Anderson_ ’s my sniffer dog.”

The formerly closed doors slid open to reveal several officers ransacking the kitchen, though Anderson was the only one to pause long enough to offer a wave with definitely sarcastic eyebrows.

“Anderson, what are _you_ doing here on a drugs bust?”

The forensic analyst smirked, replying dryly, “Oh, I volunteered.”

“They _all_ did,” Lestrade interjected before Sherlock could verbal eviscerate Anderson. “They’re not strictly speaking _on_ the drugs squad, but they’re very keen.”

John was suddenly reminded of that document Moran had found on the Scotland Yard computer, all bets on when Sherlock would finally crack and go on a murder spree. Moran hadn’t told him who had bet the highest, but John would bet half of his organization’s profits that it was Anderson. Or Donovan. He was also fairly sure that Lestrade, had he been aware of the betting, would’ve put a stop to it sometime ago, and recommend all the officers involved for sensitivity training.

Perhaps there was an anonymous email in Lestrade’s future.

Of course, Donovan took that opportunity to waltz out of the kitchen with a glass jar of small white spheres. John wasn’t sure whether or not he should be unnerved that he was able to recognize human eyes at about twenty paces. His therapist would’ve had a field day with that.

The Detective Sergeant held it up somewhat anxiously. “Are these _human_ eyes?”

“Put those back,” Sherlock demanded immediately, moving to block John’s line of sight, even though it was much too late. Not that they particularly bothered him; he’d seen worse, done worse.

“They were in the microwave.”

John added _Lecture on Food Safety and Sanitation_ to his growing list of things to do.

“It’s an experiment.”

Lestrade quickly redirected the officers back to their tasks, lest the argument between Sherlock and Donovan escalated any further. He glanced at Sherlock. “You could help us properly, and I’ll stand them down.”

“This is childish,” insisted Sherlock, pacing furiously.

“Well, I’m dealing with a child. I’m letting you in on our case, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?”

Sherlock stopped glared at him. “Oh, so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me.”

“It stops being pretend if they find anything.”

John took a moment to consider the fact that Lestrade had chosen now, of all times, to conduct this drugs bust. Perhaps Mycroft wasn’t the only one who worried over Sherlock’s choice of flatmates. But still, this whole thing seemed terribly impolite for what was supposed to be civilized society.

Whether Sherlock noticed the rather unconventional expression of affection was up to debate, but he did feel the need to proclaim his sobriety, so perhaps not. “I don’t even smoke.” He proved it by unbuttoning and rolling up his shirt cuff to show off the nicotine patch on his forearm.

“Neither do I,” Lestrade countered, pushing up his right sleeve to reveal a similar patch. “So let’s work together. We’ve found Rachel.”

Sherlock mind immediately turned to the case at hand. “Who is she?”

“Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.”

Sherlock frowned, questioning, “Her daughter? Why would she write her daughter’s name?”

Anderson, rat bastard he was turning out to be, interrupted. “Never mind that. We found the case. According to _someone_ , the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath.”

Again, John questioned what medical background these people had to make that kind of diagnosis without a proper psychological evaluation, or much in the way of evidence aside from social awkwardness. Which, actually, was rare in psychopaths as they learned early on to blend in. John and his lieutenant Hale were prime examples. People like Sherlock were relatively harmless to the general populace as long as they had some sort of guardian, keeper, or assistant. (Luckily, John was rather used to that position before he fully realized he had become Sherlock’s keeper.)

Sherlock appeared to be just as unimpressed. “I’m not a psychopath, Anderson. I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research.” He turned haughtily back to Lestrade. “You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. _I_ need to question her.”

“She’s dead.”

Apropos of seemingly nothing, Sherlock grinned, exclaiming, “Excellent.”

John really hated the fact that he was starting to see Donovan and Anderson’s logic, even though it was absolutely riddled with fallacies and faulty syllogism. But now wasn’t the time for that. Now was the time to channel his inner hedgehog and look like a startled woodland creature.

And question his life choices, but that was becoming something of an unfortunate standard at this point.


	6. Chapter 5

Sherlock didn’t seem to noticed that his little...outburst hadn’t been well-received. “How, when, and why? Is there a connection? There _has_ to be.”

Lestrade, the outwardly gruff but caring soul he seemed to be (and a bit of a marshmallow, in John’s opinion), shifted uncomfortably before replying, “I doubt it, since she’s been dead for fourteen years. Technically, she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson’s stillborn daughter, fourteen years ago.”

John had never personally known anyone to go through that kind of tragedy, but he’d seen patients when doing his rounds at Bart’s back in Uni, and couldn’t contain a grimace of vague sympathy and sadness. Sherlock, however, seemed befuddled more than anything else. “No, that’s—that’s not right. How—why would she do that?”

“Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?” Anderson sneered. “Yup—sociopath. I’m seeing it now.”

Sherlock gave the man an exasperated look. (Which John quickly realized was pretty much Sherlock’s default state around Anderson.) “She didn’t _think_ about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt,” he stressed, beginning to pace again.

John tried to help him understand potential causes. “You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he _makes_ them take it. Well, maybe he—I don’t know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow.” That certainly fell in line with the sadists and general psychos John employed. His business was hardly ever all sunshine and rainbows, and even then, those rainbows were bloodstained and the sunshine was weak at best.

“Yes, but that was _ages_ ago,” Sherlock said as he paused in his pacing. “Why would she still be upset?”

John could only stare at him helpless because—really? A woman’s only daughter was stillborn. That was a traumatic event, and perhaps the reason why Jennifer Wilson never had a second child. Either because she feared another stillborn child or she was physically unable to have more children.

The flat had gone eerily silent as everyone stopped to stare at Sherlock, who glanced around nervously before looking back at John. “Not good?” he asked hesitantly as he finally picked up on a rather blatant social cue.

Definitely not a psychopath. Though, how John had ended up as the moral compass of yet another ethically challenged man, he will never know. Hale, though, had to be more difficult, in theory, since he was a proper psychopath. Sherlock was a sociopath, if that. He seemed more socially awkward than anything else as far as John could tell. It was still a little mindboggling to think that Mycroft and Sherlock were brothers, raised by the same parents (most likely) in similar environments, seeing as Mycroft seemed to be mostly well-adjusted. He was still bloody creepy, but that was probably purposeful in John’s case, rather than Sherlock’s consistent bumbling attempts at being a normal human being.

“Bit not good, yeah,” John replied quietly, a gentle reprimand. While there were obvious differences between Sherlock and Hale, John couldn’t help but fall into the familiar rhythm of firm, guiding nudges as opposed to blunt, forceful corrections. Perhaps it was because Sherlock, underneath his caustic persona, was very much like the fifteen-year-old, skittish Hale who had been desperate for any sort of kind gesture, though innately distrustful of it.

Sherlock took the reprimand easily, which made John wonder how many times it would take for the lesson to sink in, and regarded him closely. “Yes, but if you were dying—if you’d been murdered: in your very last seconds what would you say?”

“Please, God, let me live,” John answered readily, absently as his thoughts tunnelled back, trapping him in the memories of bleeding out onto the hot sand and begging for someone, anyone to save him. Thinking endlessly: _Let me live. I have so much left. Please, God, let me live. The world,_ my _world, will burn without me. Jim’s not ready—might never be ready. Harry—she’s lost so much. Not more. Please, God, don’t let her lose anymore. Don’t take me like Mum—don’t do that to her, not now. Please, God, don’t do this. Don’t take me from them. They won’t survive, and it’ll be my fault, all my fault, like what happened to Da, and what happened to Bill. Please, oh please, please don’t, don’t take me. Let me live. Please, God, let me live._

“Oh, use your imagination,” Sherlock spat, exasperated by John’s apparently _lacking_ answer. It was enough, though, to jar John out of his memory.

“I don’t have to.”

Sherlock stopped short, obvious caught off-guard by John’s reply. He peered at John’s expression, and shifted guiltily and apologetically before steamrolling on. “Yes, but if you were clever, really clever.... Jennifer Wilson, running all those lovers; she was clever.” Sherlock began pacing again, trying to stimulate the deductive process or some such. “She’s trying to _tell_ us something.”

John was no longer sure where this whole conversation was going, or if it was headed towards anything that was potentially dangerous. As far as he knew, Jennifer Wilson’s daughter was inconsequential, but perhaps she had a bigger role to play in this whole thing.

With a flitting nervous glance at the officers milling about the flat, Mrs. Hudson dithered at the door of the sitting room. “Isn’t the doorbell working? Sherlock,” she said, drawing the tall detective’s attention. “Your taxi’s here.”

“I didn’t order a taxi,” he replied. “Go away.”

Mrs. Hudson was unruffled by the blunt dismissal, and looked again at the yarders in the flat. “Oh, dear. They’re making such a mess. What are they looking for?” she asked, glancing questioningly at John.

“It’s a drug bust, Mrs. Hudson,” replied John.

John hadn’t noticed how much stress this whole situation had been putting on Sherlock until Sherlock suddenly halted his pacing and shouted at everyone to shut up, even though no one besides John and Mrs. Hudson had made a peep since Sherlock’s first outburst. John had to bite his cheek to keep from laughing when Sherlock ordered, “Anderson, face the other way. Your face is putting me off.”

The forensic analyst squawked incredulously, but Lestrade butted in before anything could come of it. “Everybody quiet and still. Anderson, turn your back.”

)

Once Lestrade and his men had cleared out and Sherlock had buggered off to God only knew where, John stared at the laptop, trying in vain to reason how Jennifer Wilson’s mobile had been shown in the flat but the mobile hadn’t rung. Then he noticed the signal was moving, slowly, away from 221 Baker Street, and that didn’t make any sense; why would the mobile be moving?

As realization washed over John, he paled, thinking back to the cab that Sherlock had gotten in not five minutes ago. He didn’t bother to resist the urge to knock his head against the solid wood of the table. Because, _buggering hell_ , why couldn’t anything be simple? It was becoming all too clear just what was going on here. Jim had gotten bored, probably chafing at the new restrictions on his movements and what sort of jobs the Organization was accepting right now. So, self-centred brat he was, everyone’s favourite little psycho decided to get someone’s attention. Not just anyone’s attention, though, because Jim was nothing if not arrogant. Oh, no, he had to get the attention of the British Government’s little brother, who was a mental equal. But Sherlock, for all his smarts, didn’t have the connections Jim did, even if he was fairly well-connected. Which meant that Jim had an upper hand.

But he had absolutely no right to be playing fast and loose with _John’s_ men. Jim could do whatever the hell he wanted with his little imitation network on the side, but the Organization, which had been passed into John’s hand to be nurtured and expanded, was off-limits He had made it into what it was now, a criminal underground that spanned over every inch of the world, even if several countries had just the barest footholds. John had devoted his entire adult life to the Organization, and he wasn’t going to have it all thrown away because Jim was an impulsive child.

However, this asinine game wouldn’t end just because John said so. Jim was far too stubborn for that. People were going to die, tonight especially, but John would be damned if Sherlock was one of them, even if it was as an object lesson to Jim that he couldn’t always get what he wanted.

John opened the GPS tracker website on his mobile (which was going to be hell on his cellular plan, Goddamn it), checked his gun, and then thundered down the stairs.

He had an assassination to prevent, a rather unfortunate first.

)

The Roland-Kerr Further Education College was swathed in shadows, though John could make out another cab as the one he arrived in drove off in hurry. He took a moment to hope his phone call to the Yard had been aptly timed, otherwise John would end up in prison for possession of a firearm, if not murder, either by Sherlock’s hand or DI Lestrade’s. Sherlock dying simply wasn’t a possibility that John would allow.

The two buildings were identical as far as John could tell, and his hit man had been smart enough not to leave any sort of trail which would lead back to him. There wasn’t enough time to search both, and the map of the phone’s GPS wasn’t precise enough to tell which building it was in. John stashed his mobile in his pocket, drew his gun, and headed towards the right building, praying he wasn’t wrong.

_Please, God, don’t be let me be wrong. Let me save him. Let me do some good. Let him_ live _._

He scoured the corridors of the building, shouting Sherlock’s name as he ducked into classroom and looked through windows. John took the stairs as fast as he could between floors, growing desperate as his search turned up nothing. Sherlock had to be here somewhere. He _had_ to.

Bursting through the door of another classroom, John finally found what he was looking for. There was Sherlock, safe as houses, in his Belstaff coat and blue scarf. Through the window, of course, and in the other building with a man John recognized vaguely as Jeff Hope—a decent enough man, very intelligent and cunning, desperate enough to leave something behind for his family that he sold his soul. John could vaguely make out the shape of some sort of small containers in their hands, and he realized with horror that they were preparing to take the poison.

(The small part of his mind that wasn’t completely horrified that he’d almost been too late was busy pointing out that this whole serial killer with two poisoned pill thing might be plagiarism, since it was straight out of the Princess Bride, except for the dialogue. That part of his brain was also the part that still thought Jim had potential, so John ignored it.)

John watched for a terrible moment as the two men slowly lifted the pills, obviously intent on taking the poison of which Hope was no doubt immune to. His decision was made before he was fully aware of lifting his arm, and slotting into the firing stance that had long been ingrained in his muscle memory. He didn’t hesitate to the pull the trigger, to end a life, and spared only the briefest thought of sending the family an anonymous fruit basket as the bullet punched through one window, then a second, past Sherlock completely, into Hope just off-centre from where John had aimed at his heart, and then stopped abruptly in the door of the classroom.

Once Hope dropped, no longer any sort of threat (since Sherlock couldn’t very well prove he’d pick the right one if his opponent in that twisted battle of wits was dead), John lowered the gun to his side, and inhaled deeply to combat the sudden rush of latent adrenaline. He watched for a moment as Sherlock leaned down to say something or observe something, but left quickly as sirens sounded.

John had things to do, after all, and it wouldn’t do to get caught just yet.

He considered ducking down one of the nearby alleys and finding one of the homeless urchins his network contracted on occasion to pass the gun off to, but getting a new gun wouldn’t be easy under Big Brother’s surveillance. There wasn’t much he could do to hide the gun with the barrel still hot, so he stuck it in his pocket, glad for its depth, and stalked quietly and carefully out of the building.

He strolled around for a few blocks before heading back towards the crime scene to check on his flatmate, ignoring the powder burns on his hands. (He had worse, and it wasn’t much worse than a bad sunburn, really.) John didn’t dare cross the police tap, but he spotted Sherlock on the back of an ambulance with a bright orange shock blanket draped over his shoulders as he talked quietly to Lestrade. John bided his time, glancing around at the crime scene techs and police officers milling about. Donovan came over to tell him what had happened while was “off to parts unknown,” and issuing another futile warning to stay away from Sherlock Holmes.

John was really running out of reasons not to arrange an accident for her.

Once Sherlock finished with Lestrade, he made his way over to John, ducking daft under the crime scene tape.

Since Sherlock was quite frankly abysmal at small talk, John initiated conversation. “Sergeant Donovan’s just been explaining everything; the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn’t it?” He tried to pretend to be pretending to seem innocent. Which was actually harder than it seemed. “Dreadful.”

Sherlock looked at him, before commenting quietly, “Good shot.”

John made a good show of having a lousy poker face, so that Sherlock wouldn’t suspect him later on. “Yes. Yes, must have been, through the window.”

“Well, you’d know.”

By now, John realized that this wasn’t just Sherlock confirming he was right, but more that Sherlock didn’t realize that talking in front of all and sundry about a crime that John had just committed was a brilliant way for John to get _caught_. Christ, he really was like a socially awkward child. A right wunderkind.

“He wasn’t a very nice man,” he replied quietly, glancing around to make sure no one was eavesdropping.

Sherlock chuckled. “He _was_ a bad cabbie. Should’ve seen the route he took us on to get here!”

John couldn’t help a small giggle, and Sherlock smiled as John tried to sound stern, chastising, “Stop, we can’t giggle. We’re at a crime scene! Stop it!”

“You’re the one who shot him. Don’t blame me.”

“Keep your voice down,” John hissed as they walked past Donovan, who regarded them suspiciously. “Sorry—it’s just, um, nerves, I think.”

“Sorry,” Sherlock echoed, seeming to finally realize that this wasn’t exactly a conversation meant for public consumption. That didn’t stop him for long. As soon as Donovan was out of sight, Sherlock’s smile came back, though slightly less beaming. “Dinner?” he asked John.

He opened his mouth to reply, but, catching sight of Mycroft sliding out of a car up ahead, said, “Sherlock, that’s him. That’s the man I was talking to you about.”

Any trace of a grin was wiped from Sherlock’s face as he followed John’s gaze. “I know _exactly_ who that is,” said Sherlock flatly. He stalked angrily towards his brother, and for a moment John thought Sherlock might strike him, just for breathing the same air.

Difficult relationship definitely.

Mycroft broke the tense silence first. “Another case cracked then. How very public spirited; though, that’s never really your motivation, is it?”

“What are you doing here?” Sherlock voice was sharp as the crack of the whip, and just as threatening.

“As ever,” his brother returned blithely, “I’m concerned about you.”

John wondered if he should go back to Baker Street and leave them to it, or if he should grab some popcorn and enjoy the show. It would no doubt be amusing, even if it was basically a verbal blood sport. Probably because it was a verbal blood sport that, unlike the ones between Hale and Jim, was not likely to end with actual bloodshed. Much neater, but just as vicious.

“Yes, I’ve been hearing about your _concern_.” Sherlock bit out the last word as though it was a curse and left a foul taste in his mouth.

“Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you that you and I belong on the same side?”

John swallowed back a snort because that had to be the biggest load of horse shite he’d ever heard. Mycroft was on the side of England and his own interests, while Sherlock was chasing highs and thrills, even if he probably did reveal in locking up criminals as proof of his superiority.

“Oddly enough, no,” Sherlock replied tartly.

Mycroft’s tone was even though his posture betrayed his annoyance. “We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer,” the elder Holmes intoned darkly. He paused for a moment before adding, “And you know how it always upset Mummy.”

“ _I_ upset her? Me?”

Mycroft glowered, but didn’t appear to have a reply. Sherlock was smug as he continued, “It wasn’t _me_ that upset her, Mycroft.”

John had a feeling that the probability of someone walking away with a broken nose and split knuckles had just increased drastically. Oh, how he hated getting involved in these kind of things, but needs must. “Wait,” he interjected, arranging his expression into one of bewilderment. “Mummy? Who’s Mummy?”

“Mother,” Sherlock replied, not even bothering to glance John’s way. “Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft. Putting on weight again, are we?”

“Losing it, in fact,” Mycroft returned sharply, his expression had smoothed back into superior aloofness.

John glanced between the two. “You two are near opposites.”

“Only near?” Sherlock asked snidely.

“Yeah, you’re both some of the most pretentious drama queens I’ve ever met.”

Mycroft’s left eyebrow twitched just the tiniest bit, and John was nearly positive that if he hadn’t accepted a flatshare with Sherlock, his “luck” would’ve taken a turn for the worse. Sherlock was much more expressive in his disdain, face drawn and twisted into bitter, disgusted lines.

Neither denied it, however, so John figured they had made some sort of pact to never mention it in public, but accepted the fact whole-heartily. Now if only Jim could get over throwing a hissy fit whenever someone insinuated he was even the slightest bit overdramatic. (If John decided not to kill him for this whole ordeal that is.)

)

Dinner (after Sherlock had irritated Mycroft enough to leave) took longer than John had expected, so he stayed overnight at Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson had given him significant looks as he went out the street door in yesterday’s clothes and he couldn’t help but blush a little, even if the silent insinuations were completely unfound.

It took John a few minutes to flag down a cab since he wasn’t as noticeable as his gangly new flatmate and none of the Organization’s cabbies knew what he looked like and thus wouldn’t stop, even though he spotted at least two of them. The ride to his bedsit was fairly boring, so John kept himself occupied by keeping track of his two—no, three tails. They were probably Mycroft’s spooks, since no one else had any reason to put surveillance on him. Except maybe Moran, who was actually a worry-wart under his tiger-killing, he-man exterior.

His bedsit looked the same as it had last night (and that seemed like eons ago now, after that dreadful business at the college), but John took the time to sweep again for surveillance devices. The six he’d found yesterday were gone, which was a relief. But it also meant that Mycroft most likely had his room at Baker Street bugged now, which meant having any sort of private conversation within the flat was about nil. With the men tailing him, arranging meetings with Moran would become difficult as well. Hopefully, Mycroft would get tired of wasting resources on little Johnny do-good (an unfortunate and ironic childhood nickname) and go back to the tried and true method of stalking via CCTV cameras.

John kneeled to get his computer case from under his bed, and was still a little in awe that he could stand without levering himself up on the mattress. Genius gits were good for some things it seemed.

Digging through the case, it took John a few moments to find his mobile. Unlocking the phone, John winced at the bright 21 displayed over his text message inbox. Moran, on average, texted him once or twice a week. Twenty-one texts in one night was not a good omen. A quick thumb through the first two messages showed that about an hour and a half after he sent the request for confirmation and information on the serial suicides, Moran had finally replied and then about ten minutes after that he had sent a follow-up text asking why John wanted that information.

It was the third text, sent half an hour after the second, which gave John a moment of pause.

_Jim has started cackling_  
like a bloody jackal;  
Should I be worried?

_xo_

The timestamp matched up with the approximate time that Sherlock had gotten into Hope’s taxi, which eliminated any doubt John may’ve had (which was none) about Jim’s involvement in this snafu. The fourth text had been sent about twenty minutes later, not long after John had shot Hope.

_Cackling cut off abruptly_  
and Jim seems cross.   
What did you do?

_xo_

It seemed John had been wrong about Jim’s little plan. He had meant to kill Sherlock in hopes of drawing Big Brother into a game, which was possibly even more insane and about sixty-five billion times as stupid. Pranks on Mycroft were one thing; he’d get irritated and put kill orders out on you for about three months before reassigning his resources to more priority targets. But killing his darling baby brother, apple of his unwilling eye…Jim would be lucky if John got to him first.

The following influx of text messages were increasingly worried and threatening. The last message warned that if John didn’t call Moran in eight hours, he’d tell Hale that John was MIA and sit back to watch the bloodbath. Which at this point would be beyond counterproductive in taking attention _away_ from the Organization by putting it under the bloody spotlight. Not to mention that Hale’s spree might very well unveil John as the mastermind behind the Organization and that was to be avoided at all possible costs. (Whether fortunately or unfortunately, he had a bit of a soft spot for Hale and wasn’t liable to kill him over something like a massacre.)

Comparing the timestamp on the message to the current time, John winced. He had ten minutes, at most, before Moran damned London to at least half an hour of bloodshed, and that was assuming someone could get in touch with Hale within five minutes of John making the call to Moran. He quickly dialled Moran’s number, cursing the tiny stupid touchscreen number pad.

Moran picked up after the first ring with a snarling, “Where the fuck have you been?”

“Well, hello to you too,” John replied, because sometimes he did have an inability to be entirely serious during a crisis. It was one of his few failings in life.

“ _Boss._ ”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” John replied blithely. “No thanks to Jim though.”

Moran groaned. “What’d he do?”

John hesitated, glancing towards his blind-covered window. His three tails were outside, and were probably expecting him outside within the next couple of minutes. He didn’t have the time to tell Moran exactly what Jim had done this time, and he certainly didn’t have the time to endure the rant and yelling that would no doubt follow. “Not now, and it shouldn’t be over the phone. Two weeks from Wednesday at Pasties & Ale, eleven sharp. I can’t spare more than an hour, since I’ll likely be out under some sort of pretence.”

“Took the flatshare then?”

John couldn’t help but sigh at Moran’s lascivious tone. “Yeah, though this detective bloke comes with an overbearing brother.”

“Two for one deal, huh?” Moran asked slyly.

“Not exactly,” John retorted dryly. “It’s Mycroft Holmes.” With a vindictive little cackle, he rang off. Moran would no doubt be quite cross when they met up but John figured he deserved it for that little bomb of his own he dropped two days ago.

Humming a happy little ditty under his breath, John grabbed his laptop case and bags, and headed down to catch a cab back to his new home on Baker Street.

)

Sherlock, hands steepled in front of his chin, contemplated what he knew of his new flatmate, Doctor John H. Watson, formerly a Captain in Her Majesty’s Royal Army Medical Corps. Upon first meeting the man, Sherlock had assumed that John had seen combat once and only once, and had been shipped back to England because, although the good doctor craved adrenaline as Sherlock once craved cocaine, the reality of combat had taken its toll on his psyche, rendering a once brilliant surgeon completely useless in a field hospital.

Oh, how wrong Sherlock had been.

Barely a day of acquaintance and John had killed a man for him, using the handgun he had smuggled out of the army with him. Sherlock couldn’t think of a single person outside of immediate blood relatives—of which Mycroft was grudgingly included as a footnote—who would’ve attempted to do the same, let alone accomplish it. Nothing of John’s bearing and calluses had indicated time as a sniper, and as a doctor, he would’ve forfeited his protection as a medic under the Geneva Convention if he’d taken up arms as such.

Not, of course, that whoever Britain was fighting in Afghanistan was likely to follow the Geneva Convention, but most commanding officers would’ve been leery of putting medics in those sort of combat roles. Sherlock was also fairly certain there were entire books written with regulations against it. He should at some point see what sort of principles John defined as morals, since he adhered to them so strongly although outside of any sort of normal moral code as far as he could tell.

Still, Sherlock, as a societal rule, was not well liked. He was too brash, too brilliant, too cutting. For a man who seemed to have his hand on the pulse of social norms, John Watson was bafflingly intrigued by Sherlock and his deductions. Thankfully not out of any sort of romantic interest—though, a riled John was quite amusing, he noted in hindsight.

Sherlock wondered absently if he could make a spread sheet of which behaviours in which frequencies would garner the perfect reaction, balanced precariously between irritation and murderous rage.

Perhaps he could even chart which combination of behaviours invoked the best reaction.

However, Sherlock admitted to himself that he should hold back for now. This sort of experiment might drive off his new, surprisingly useful flatmate, and he had a notion that John would prove invaluable in this game with the elusive Moriarty.

He glanced towards the door to the sitting room as someone could be heard tromping up the stairs. John most likely, since the footsteps were heavier than Mrs. Hudson’s airy, nearly slight taps and given the time between steps John was no doubt carrying two large luggage containers of sort some—most likely a duffle of clothes and then a garment bag for his uniforms, since he was ex-RAMC—and then one smaller piece of luggage, most likely a laptop case. Sherlock was gratified when the sitting room door swung open to reveal his flatmate laded with a drab khaki duffle, a khaki garment bag, and a second-hand laptop case.

He was surprised to note the bulk of the laptop case, since John hadn’t appeared to be much more than barely computer literate, but Sherlock supposed John could’ve been persuaded to buy more equipment than he actual needed or used by a particularly manipulative electronics store employee.

Sherlock made a mental checkmark next to _Easily Manipulated_ , right below the checkmarks next to _Inability to Lie, Strong Moral Principles, Excellent Physician, Crack Shot,_ and _Pathological Flirt_.

Sherlock noted with a furrowed brow that John’s mobile was in his right front pocket, instead of the rear left pocket of his trousers like it had been before. Perhaps he’d been talking on the mobile while hailing a taxi and then had hastily rang off and shoved the phone in his front pocket when the cab pulled off, but if John had been in a rush, he still would’ve been motivated by muscle memory to put his phone in his left rear pocket.

After a moment, Sherlock deleted the irregularity. It wasn’t important enough to keep in his Mind Palace, lest it take up the space for something truly fascinating.

As such, he didn’t notice anything strange when John walked past him for the stairs up to the second bedroom, mobile visibly outlined in the left rear pocket of his trousers.


	7. Chapter 6

Pasties & Ale was just beginning to fill with the lunch crowd so the pub wasn’t overly crowded quite yet when John finally managed to make it through the door at about fifteen past eleven. He’d had to take a bit of a longer route to avoid the CCTV and conveniently lose his tails. The early lunch crowd provided a mellow din that John hoped would be enough to prevent anyone from eavesdropping on his conversation with Moran. But, if worst came to worst, they could move to a back room to conduct business. There were perks, after all, to being the owner of a fairly large pub in London, even if John’s name wasn’t actually on the deed.

It didn’t take long to find Moran, who was parked at the end of the bar farthest the front door but nearest the back entrance. Being six towering feet, four intimidating inches, and two-hundred and fifty-two pounds with four thick white lines of scar tissue on each of his upper arms—though currently hidden under the long-sleeves of a fitted black t-shirt—Moran was easily identifiable. Not to mention his dirty blond hair was still the same buzz cut it had been in Afghanistan with his hazel eyes reflecting nearly feline gold in the dim lighting of the pub. The rest of the bar was fairly crowded, but no one dared get within two feet of Moran, as he hunched over his pint and a plate of chips, lifting his head only long enough to glower around the pub.

Which was sort of strange to see, since every other time John had seen Moran in a pub or bar, women had been practically throwing themselves at his feet for a chance with that chiselled face. Not that any of them lasted long if they did get the chance, since Jim was a jealous lover and had a tendency to arrange accidents if Moran happened to stray a little while on business outside of the UK. Thankfully, Moran tended to attract the psychos and crazies so the inevitable deaths were not much of a loss for society.

John meandered towards the bar, calmly ordering a shepherd’s pie and a glass of water from the bartender before sliding easily into the seat to Moran’s right. He ignored the sudden quiet of the surrounding area, and the stares from the patron. Moran lifted his head from what must’ve been a plate of truly fantastic chips by the way he’d been staring at them to scowl at the patrons until they turned back to their food, beer, and conversations.

Moran pushed the remains of his chips away, taking a long drink of his bitter before glancing at John. “Holmes, huh,” he said bleakly.

“Two of ‘em,” John replied ruefully. “Bloody brilliant and bound to drive me up a wall.”

“Not a bad way to go,” Moran pointed out, no doubt speaking from experience.

John snort out a laugh, raising his glass of water to clink against Moran’s pint. “Cheers, mate.”

He quirked up an eyebrow, but didn’t speak for a few moments. “But honestly, what did Jim do this time?”

“So you know my flatmate?”

“Holmes the younger,” Moran grumbled, “yes. I assume he’s involved?”

“You know what happened to Hope?” John asked warily, staring into his glass.

Moran paused, and carefully set down his pint on a coaster. “I do, as much as our sources told me anyway. Crack shot like that—it’s a rare talent.” Which meant he knew exactly who had held the gun.

John lowered his voice. “Hope’s last pick-up was Sherlock.”

“Oh bloody hell,” Moran groaned, scrubbing at his face with one hand. “Please tell me this isn’t going where I think it is.” He didn’t wait for John to reply before waving down the bartender and ordering two shots of whiskey. The bartender’s gaze was disapproving, seeing as Moran was probably on his second if not third pint, had just ordered hard liquor, and it wasn’t even noon yet.

Moran got his shots though, downing the first immediately. “Might as well just tell me now and put me out of my misery.”

“My theory,” John started, stressing the theory part because even if he was 99 percent sure he knew what was going on Jim’s twisted little head, John was not infallible, “is that Jim’s gotten bored these last few months as things have heated up and we’ve had to make cut backs, lay off staff, that kind of thing.”

Moran’s jaw clenched and he refused to look away from his pint, but didn’t say anything.

John took it as agreement. “So he decided that the best way not to be bored was to play a game, but you know Jim—he’ll settle for nothing less than the best.”

“So he picked Holmes.” Moran downed the second shot, slamming the shot glass down hard enough to earn a glare from both John and the bartender. “Shit.”

“Did I mention the part where I think he’s actually picking a fight with the older one, and the younger one was supposed to be a pawn?” continued John sardonically.

Moran just stared for several moments, uncomprehending before cursing like he’d been in the navy, rather than the army.

John replied with a falsely cheery, “Yup! I’m trusting you to keep him in check while I try to make sure Sherlock doesn’t turn into a bloody martyr. Literally.”

Moran eyed John’s glass of water as the bartender deposited John’s shepherd’s pie in front of him. “You sure you don’t want something a little stronger? I’m buying.”

“That’s a little too tempting right now,” John admitted, digging into his food. The first bite was delicious, and he hummed in appreciation. “But comfort food is more than welcome, especially since I’m going to be almost as active as I was when I was in Afghanistan.”

“In London?” Moran asked sceptically.

John shrugged. “My flatmate likes to run over rooftops and jump between building whiles racing after a taxi with a murder in it. Which is apparently a normal Friday night for him. And I jog in the mornings now so I can check on the lieutenants without Big Brother listening in.”

“I didn’t realize you were becoming so involved with the Organization again,” Moran broached carefully, eyes sharp and wary despite the fact that he’d probably drunken enough to have a lesser man past tipsy and halfway to smashed. “You usually try to distance yourself when we’re under scrutiny.”

“Yes, well, not like I have much of a choice this time, do I?”

Moran frowned and made a gesture to go on.

John wiped at his mouth with a napkin, explaining, “Jim’s part of the command structure, which means everyone in the Organization, except for us and the lieutenants, are supposed to fall in line and do as their told. That’s what happened with Hope. By contacting the lieutenants and making sure that all the employees under their purview are under orders to run everything Jim says by their supervisors, whom clear it with you or me first, we can limit how much control he actually has. I’m hoping that if we take away all his pretty little pawns, he’ll realize that he’s not actually a king on this chessboard. Hell, I doubt he’s even a bishop. Maybe a rook.”

Moran made a face into his bitter. “A chess analogy, really, Boss?”

“That’s all this is to him, Moran: an interesting game of chess. He just doesn’t realize what sort of stakes he’s playing with, or that he’s game not confined to just him and whoever he’s selected as an opponent.”

Moran nodded reluctantly, reminding John, “He’s got resources outside our network; shady ones.”

John nearly snorted his water. “Then what the hell is our network made of? Sunshine and unicorns?”

“You know what I mean,” Moran grumbled, exasperated as he waved the bartender over to order more shots.

And John did know what Moran meant. They worked with shady people and even shadier organizations, but there was longstanding loyalty and some trust between the Organization and the other criminals and organized crime they contracted (some might’ve even said that the Organization had a tendency to incorporate other syndicates, which was a bloody nightmare). Money did often exchange hands, but if someone didn’t have the money up front (which was never, ever the Watson Underground), the other party didn’t mind taking an IOU to be paid off at a later date—either in cash or favours. Jim’s little side network, however, was strung together with gossamer threads of blood money and violence. It was all self-serving mercenaries who were just as likely to take out a target as they were their employers; thugs who didn’t care what the job was as long as they got paid. They were an unscrupulous lot at best, and utterly uncontrollable.

Not a bit unlike Jim, actually.

John sighed, and pushed away what was left of his lunch, no longer hungry. “Why don’t you and Jim go somewhere for a while? Just the two of you, in some far off city. Put in on the company card.”

“Boss,” Moran started, face torn between a worried frown and a furrowed mask of irritation to preserve his he-man persona.

John waved him off. “Not buts about it. Hale, as a senior lieutenant, and I, as the actual head of the Organization, can hold down the fort while Jim...settles a little.”

Moran winced at the mention of Hale a senior lieutenant. There had been others before Hale, of course, but Jim had...dispatched nearly all of them in varying states of boredom over the years when John and Moran had been otherwise occupied. Hale was the only one left unaffected because Jim was, despite all arguments, absolutely terrified of him. They couldn’t be in the same room together without Jim turning into a twitchy, snappish mess.

John was probably a horrible person for being amused whenever J.J—the Organization’s top hacker and one of John’s most trusted and senior lieutenants—forwarded footage of those instances.

“We still haven’t decided what to do about Fields and O’Patrick,” Moran reminded John, fidgeting with his pint.

John ran a hand through his hair and blew out a tired sigh. Being the head of a crime syndicate was nowhere near as glamorous as the media made it out to be. “At this point, the best course of action is to leave our other contractors in place and limit contact for the interim. Fields and O’Patrick didn’t have much reliable information on us, and what they did have was a few descriptions of mid-level employees and a few Swiss bank accounts. Jacobs and Baker should be assessed for surveillance and then relocated as soon and as discreetly as possible. J.J. has probably scrubbed the bank accounts, and transferred the funds through a labyrinth of wire transfers and phony accounts.”

“We’re missing their last reports,” John’s idiot and potentially suicidal second-in-command mentioned rather causally.

John picked the bridge of his nose and breathed deeply a few times so he wasn’t tempted to leap out of his stool and choke the living daylights out of Moran. It was so very tempting after all the shit that had happened. “Once this craziness and FUBAR-ness has passed, you and I are going to sit down and discuss when and how to share relevant information. Seriously, Moran. How the hell am I supposed to plan and strategize if I’m working with only half of the information?”

“FUBAR-ness isn’t a word,” he retorted, and then winced. “I think Jim’s rubbed off on me a bit.”

“You know, when I allowed this insanity you call a stable relation, I had hoped _you_ would be a mature influence on _him_ ,” John muttered darkly. “I must have underestimated his deviousness.”

“No comment.”

John valiantly ignored that can of worms (because Moran refusing to comment was a bigger hint than a flashing neon sign in Vegas that something fishy was going on), and refocused on the topic at hand. “Any idea what was in the reports?”

“Both their computers were wiped, but Fields had uploaded her report to a cloud server before,” Moran made a vague motion with his hand that John interpreted as “she died.”

Fields had always been the smart one. If she had managed to finish this mission alive and still wanted employment, John would’ve hired in a heartbeat, even if it had been part-time or locum work. “How are her kids doing?”

“Oldest just graduated with a Psyche degree, and J.J.’s found him a quiet job out in the country. He’s also arranged for the twins to get scholarships for a boarding school in Scotland, near their brother, but still out of London and the brewing governmental backlash.”

John nodded approvingly. “Make sure they receive full death benefits.” If Moran found it strange that a contractor was getting employee benefits, he made no mention so John continued on with their previous discussion. “What was in her report?”

“The Bruce-Parting Project mainly. Nothing we’d want, since the only worth it has is selling on the black market, and we don’t deal in terrorism.” Moran’s face was smooth as marble, but there was a slight downward twist to his mouth and his tone, dripping in disdain and odium, depicted well-enough what he thought of terrorists. “She mentioned some facility up in Devon, though, by the name of Baskerville. We’re not completely sure why it’s relevant since Fields had implied that O’Partrick’s report would have more information. For now, we believe Baskerville is a military research facility.”

“Keep an ear out for anything of interest,” John ordered, craning his neck to see the clock behind the bar. “No other action until further notice.” He slid off his stool, stretching and wincing at the crack his spine made. John should’ve known better than to hunch over on a barstool. “Text me or send a messenger my way if anything comes up, and I’ll ring or set up a meet. Now, I’m off to do the shopping.”

Moran guffawed, retorting, “That’s awful domestic of you, Watson.” He inclined his head in acknowledgment of his orders though, and waved as John trudged towards the door.

)

John stomped his way up to 221B Baker Street, woefully empty handed and cursing the necessary evil of chip and PIN machines. They usually worked just fine for John, since J.J. had gotten into the habit of hacking and reprogramming any and all of the buggering little devils to be more user-friendly within a five mile radius of John’s residence. It had been a decade since the last time John had had difficulties with a chip and PIN machine in London.

John had a feeling Mycroft was behind this.

It was actually kind of genius: annoy whoever was annoying you by reprogramming the chip and PIN machines to be as difficult as possible and then sit back and watch as they entered a rage that would likely result in a hefty bit of property damage and a brief stint in the Yard’s holding cells or suicide so that they didn’t have to deal with the bloody little bastards.

Mycroft was positively diabolical.

Sherlock, of course, wasn’t much better with his bloody midnight concerts that were less music and more horrid screeching of a tormented cat. He hadn’t even appeared to have moved from his armchair at first glance, and didn’t even look up as he commented, “You took your time.”

“Yeah,” John replied tightly, fingers flexing with the urge to do a little violence—perhaps to Mycroft, perhaps to Sherlock, quite likely to Jim. “I didn’t get the shopping.”

Sherlock finally dragged his attention from the book to stare at John. “What? Why not?”

“Because I had a row, in the shop, with a chip and PIN machine.”

Sherlock lowered his book, asking, “You— _you_ had a _row_ with a machine?”

It actually wasn’t that uncommon, despite the incredulous look on Sherlock’s face. John had often shouted at medical equipment during his army days when it shorted, failed, or displayed readings he didn’t like. J.J., especially, had rows with his computers either because something had gone wrong or because some half-pint in America had destroyed him in one of those online multiplayer games.

“Sort of. It sat there and I shouted abuse at it.” John sighed, suddenly feeling drained. He was getting too old for this sort of nonsense, but he would never be able to tear himself away. “Have you got any cash?”

The curly-haired detective seemed inordinately amused by John’s ire, but was obviously holding back a smile. He nodded towards the kitchen. “Take my card.”

“You could always get it yourself you know,” John grumbled indignantly, heading towards the table. “You’ve been sitting in that chair all morning; haven’t even moved since I left!” He reached the table and snatched up his flatmate’s wallet, but not before noticing a new, deep gouge in the table that had most definitely not been there that morning when John had been having his tea and toast, or when he returned back from his biweekly jog.

It seemed Sherlock had actually moved from the chair, and had been horsing around with some kind of scimitar. Sometimes John wondered why Mycroft didn’t just put out an edict that no one was supposed to sell Sherlock Holmes dangerous materials, exotic weaponry included. It would’ve certainly saved both John and his flatmate’s brother quite a few headaches.

John made a mental note to suggest it to Mycroft at the first available opportunity without Sherlock around to throw an epic sulk. (Not that he’d actually seen Sherlock throw a sulk yet, but he was similar enough to Jim that it wasn’t hard to imagine.)

He rifled through Sherlock’s wallet, looking for a suitable card. “And what happened with that case you were offered—the Jaria Diamond, wasn’t it?”

“Not interest,” replied Sherlock dismissively, snapping his book closed with a loud crack. John glanced up just in time to see Sherlock slide a large scimitar farther under his chair to hide it from view. He continued firmly, “I sent them a message.”

Well, it seemed that _Sherlock_ hadn’t been the one horsing around with a scimitar this time. (He wasn’t sure whether that was better or worse than the alternative). Perhaps John should send a missive out to all the nearby organizations and syndicates to let them know that 221 Baker Street was off-limits. He’d have to discuss it with J.J. during their next phone call, and then perhaps broach the idea with Moran, since he was likely to want the same with his flat next-door. Maybe John would expand the protection to this entire block, just to make things a little more difficult for anyone looking for why two buildings on the same street were off-limits to any sort of criminal activity.

)

John trooped up the stairs of his flat once again, this time weighed down by several bags of shopping, quite possibly for the sole reason of spending a copious amount of Sherlock’s money. It’s a little bit irking though, when he finally made it to the sitting room without assistance, even though Sherlock had most definitely been able to hear him clambering up the stairs and deduce that he’d bought more shopping than any one sane man could carry.

He just might beat our Jim for Most Arrogant, Self-centred Prat in the Universe. Like Miss Universe, only slightly more annoying, significantly more intelligent, and more prone to cataclysmic chaos.

“Don’t worry about me,” he called into the flat once he made it to the sitting room. “I can manage perfectly fine on my own.”

Why had he thought that living with an eccentric genius was a good idea again? Because John couldn’t think of a single reason at the moment as he hauled the shopping onto the kitchen table. Turning, he frowned at Sherlock. “Is that my computer?”

The large mop of curly-hair that passed for a head didn’t lift from where it was bent over the keyboard. “Mine was in the bedroom.”

“What, and you just couldn’t be bothered to get up?” John added _Boundaries_ to the growing flatmate obedience training list, right after the items _Hazardous Materials: Usage and Disposal_ and _Division of Household Responsibilities._ He needed to track down this mysterious Mummy figure and ask her how the hell Mycroft managed to function in society while Sherlock couldn’t seem to finesse the finer points of human interaction, but could discern motives and guilty consciences at fifty paces. Just, how? How could someone know human nature so intimately, and yet be unaware of the emotional pressure plates?

Then again, Sherlock seemed to delight in pissing people off at times.

And now that John thought of it...“My computer’s password protected!” And damn near unhackable thanks to J.J..

“In a manner of speaking,” Sherlock replied absently as he typed. “Took me less than a minute to guess yours. Not exactly Fort Knox.”

“Right,” John muttered under his breath, batting the lid of his laptop closed and nearly catching Sherlock’s fingers. John made a mental note to have talk to J.J. about doing that thing where you made a ridiculously long and convoluted password that was then put on a USB stick, and then you just plugged the stick in instead of typing it all out. That would certainly thwart future hacking attempts.

Deftly, John plucked the laptop from the table and transported the computer to its rightful place next to his arm chair, which was really only a temporary solution but it was the best he could do for the moment. He collapsed in his chair, grateful to be able to relax for a moment, and picked up the mail to sort through. His moment of reprieve was short-lived as he found it to be nearly entirely bills, one of which was marked as urgent. John scrubbed at his face, muttering under his breath, “Need to get a job.”

“Dull,” Sherlock announced from his position at the kitchen table. While John was inclined to agree, quite vehemently actually, he didn’t have to luxury of family money the way Sherlock did. Harry, admittedly, had a very lovely nest egg that John had carefully engineered with a bit of stock market tampering (which J.J. had furtively kept up since), but he wasn’t going to go beg his sister for money. Mostly because John was fairly sure that Harry wouldn’t have given it to him, and even if she did, she would’ve expected timely repayment.

Which meant if the bills were going to get paid, it would be coming from Sherlock’s (or more likely Mycroft’s) chequebook. “Sherlock, seeing as I’m a bit tight on cash right now—being unemployed and all—I was wondering if you might be able to cover this month’s expense, and I would then repay you half when I finally get a job. Does that seem...” John trailed off when Sherlock didn’t so much as glance away from the spot on the wall he’d been staring at for the last several moments. “Sherlock, are you listening?”

“I need to go to the bank,” said Sherlock, standing abruptly and snagging his coat as he strode towards the stairs.

John just stared at the door for a moment, before heaving himself out of the armchair with a sigh and heading after the madman. Because honestly the chances of Sherlock simply going to a bank and doing something as mundane as withdrawing money was so miniscule, you probably needed a microscope to see them.


	8. Chapter 7

So, apparently, when Sherlock said “bank,” he’d meant Shad Sanderson Bank, which was in bloody Tower 42 on Old Broad Street. As John glanced around the large, opulent foyer, he couldn’t help but be reminded of that casino in Las Vegas he’d spent three months casing for some American Mafioso. All glass, escalators, and pretentious wealth, which John had rather enjoyed watching crumble after a spectacular heist worth 20 million pounds in property damage alone.

Ah, the good old days.

He didn't have long to reminisce as Sherlock headed immediately for the escalator to the upper floors, and John was far too curious to see where exactly this little venture was going to lag behind more than a step or two.

Sherlock sauntered up the reception desk, and simply stated his name to one of the receptionists as if that was more than enough to warrant his presence and their immediate service. John bit back a laugh. Such displays of arrogance had become common place, and it was a bit obvious that Sherlock was still in the peacocking stage of their flatshare.

He seemed to be under the impression that John still needed to be wooed to stay at 221B. John had absolutely no intention to suggest him otherwise just yet.      

They were led promptly to an office, labelled by a single placard reading _Sebastian Wilkes_. The name nagged at John’s memory, vaguely, but he shelved the thought for tomorrow’s run, as the man inside the office came forward to greet Sherlock. Wilkes was a bit shorter than Sherlock, short brown hair styled and slicked back with enough product for an oily sheen, and dead-eyed with a self-assured swagger and a smug smirk. He seemed like an eel, which wasn’t a bad comparison since he was apparently an _investment banker_. The Organization employed an entire fleet of them, certainly, who worked in a variety of banks and countries, but every last one of them were kept at the very fringes, exposed to only a single contact who played them like marionettes and kept them complacent. The investment banker turnover, however, was nearly astronomical to keep the profit margin high.

Sherlock submitted to a handshake, seemingly disinterested when Wilkes clasped onto Sherlock’s hand with two of his own, grinning sharply and speaking as if they were old chums, “How long’s it been? Eight years since I last clapped eyes on you?”

Sherlock didn’t reply, but the downturned corners of his mouth and the slant of his body away from Wilkes projected a thinly-veiled disgust.

Wilkes’ attention shifted to John, and he maintained a politely blank expression, even though his distaste of investment bankers—no matter how useful and profitable they could be—was nearly all-encompassing and quite well known among his closer associates. John was already plotting out the perfect way to murder the slimy git—a force of habit that often came in handy when someone actually needed to be murdered, though most schemes had to be tweaked a little before execution.

John’s murderous musings were brought up short as Sherlock introduced him.

“This is my friend, John Watson.”

John resisted the urge to gape at Sherlock. John didn’t have _friends_ , no matter what Mike Stamford might’ve said, and he wasn’t looking for any, _thank you very much_. He was perfectly happy with his own company, and Moran’s when required. J.J. wasn’t a bad conversationalist either, and Hale’s company could be braved every so often without a promise of bloodshed, torture, or catastrophe if John was ever desperate for human contact.

Even if John did have friends, Sherlock wouldn’t be one of them. The man was a bloody detective; the minute John let his defences down, his freedom—his entire life—was _gone_. On the off-chance John decided to run, instead of facing a court of law—and quite possibly being smug when Sherlock was left discredit and John out of prison if he could circumvent Big Brother’s influence—his reputation would be shot to hell. No one wanted to do business with a man who’d been in the public eye, not when his business was based entirely on anonymity and doing the dirtiest of works in the shadows.

Flatmates were one thing; friends were something else entirely.

Wilkes, it seemed, had taken note of the word as well. “Friends?” he asked mildly, glancing between the two.

“Colleague,” John was quick to correct. Not necessarily a good descriptor, but one that would serve for the moment.

“Right,” Wilkes said, shaking John’s hand. He repeated the word as he dropped John’s hand, sending Sherlock a quick, mean grin meant to be mocking.

John made a face at the back of Wilkes’ head. It had been one thing to correct Sherlock on the nature of his relationship with John—those could not be decided one-sidedly, and he resolved to move _Boundaries_ up on the list—but to deride Sherlock for his social awkwardness and uncertainty was completely unnecessary, especially when coming from a guppy of an investment banker.

“Well,” Wilkes continued, unbeknownst to his gradual creep up John’s “Possible Annoyances to Kill When Bored in Increasingly Ridiculous Ways” list. “Grab a pew. D’you need anything? Coffee, water?”

Pew? _Who the hell did he think he was? Some kind of vicar?_ “No,” John replied blandly, not even glancing over at Sherlock to verify that he was included in that statement as well. If Wilkes’ good-natured hostility was any indication, any refreshments were likely to be ‘jokingly’ tampered with, perhaps even spiked.

“No?” Wilkes shrugged off the refusal and dismissed his secretary as he sat down at his desk.

“So you’re doing well,” Sherlock commented levelly. “You’ve been abroad a lot.”

Wilkes seemed a bit surprised by the lack of a scathing response. (To be honest, so was John.) “Well, some.”

“Flying all the way around the world twice in a month?”

John frowned, squinting a little at Wilkes to see if he could see whatever it was Sherlock had seen. But, nope. There was plenty that indicated that Wilkes was a privileged, white-collar prat who liked to pretend he was a shark, but John couldn’t see a single indication that the investment banker had gone around the world twice, let alone twice in one month.

Wilkes laughed at the deduction, pointing at Sherlock, as he said, causally dismissive, “Right. You’re doing that thing.” He glanced at John, grinning as if they were sharing some kind of joke. “We were at Uni together. This guy here had a trick he used to do.”

“It’s not a trick,” Sherlock said quietly. So quietly that John could barely hear him, which was absolutely _nothing_ like the Sherlock John had come to know. The Sherlock John knew would’ve torn Wilkes to shreds within moments of setting foot in his office—hell, the Sherlock he knew wouldn’t have come in the first place, since obviously this was some kind of private case. Perhaps Sherlock saw Wilkes as a lesser evil (which he probably was, compared to Mycroft), but that wasn’t a reason for him to just _bow down_ and accept that kind of treatment in exchange for a little money. If you let someone walk over you once, he’d keep doing it until you were a doormat or you finally stood up and shook the bastard off.

Wilkes didn’t seem to have heard Sherlock as he continued, “He could look at you and tell your whole life story.”

“Yes, I’ve seen him do it.” Only years of hiding in plain sight and donning a thousand faces allowed John to keep a neutral tone, rather than something more condemning and wrathful.

“We hated him,” the investment banker added offhandedly, as if it was a simple fact. Something that had been reiterated since the beginning of time: common knowledge or some universal truth.

Wilkes was too wrapped up in himself—in imparting what he seemed to think was some vital word of wisdom—that he completely missed the expression on Sherlock’s face as he turned away and looked at the floor. The sight of Sherlock’s face twisted with both old pain and fresh agony at the reminder that society had rejected him, and would seemingly always be an unconquerable opponent—that sight alone was enough to make a little of John’s heart (blackened, bruised, and broken as it was) beat and pang in sympathy.

It was also enough to move Wilkes onto John’s rather short hit list. (Which was rather misleadingly named, since the people on that list never died slowly, and no death was anything less than personal, a twisted sort of intimacy in the blood that stained John’s hands and soul.)

Unaware of his new fate, Wilkes blathered on. “Go on, enlighten me. Two trips in a month, flying around the world: you’re quite right. How could you tell?” Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but Wilkes continued, smugly, “You’re going to tell me there was a stain on my tie from some special kind of ketchup you can only buy in Manhattan.”

John just stared at Wilkes. Because _ketchup_? He honestly thought that Sherlock would be able to tell he went twice around the world in a month because of _ketchup_?

And people thought _John_ had a few screws loose.

He would probably be doing the world a favour when he finally killed this utter moron, and that thought made John grin.

“No, I—” Sherlock started, only to be cut off again.

“Maybe it was the mud on my shoes.”

Sherlock was unusually quiet for a moment, obviously waiting for an opportunity to speak rather than repaying Wilkes’ insolence in kind. And then he opened his mouth and _lied_ , “I was just chatting with your secretary outside. _She_ told me.”

John stared at Sherlock, feeling suddenly out of his depth. Oh, he knew Sherlock lied—it was nearly a compulsion for him John suspected—but to lie about his deductions, his utter brilliance, was _absurd_. Sherlock hadn’t allowed any of the yarders’ opinions to openly affect him, and he had used his whipcord brilliancy and sharp tongue to prove that he was better, that he was more than they could ever _hope_ to be. And here was one man, some Uni acquaintance from over a decade ago, and Sherlock was suddenly playing at normalcy. At being _average_.

It was a travesty, nearly sacrilege. Especially since Sherlock seemed to think it was _necessary_. He shouldn’t have been made to change himself for someone else’s opinion, especially not someone as inconsequential and _worthless_ as Sebastian Wilkes.

Wilkes laughed humourlessly at the explanation, prompting an equally humourless and insincere smile from Sherlock. After a moment, the investment banker turned serious, obviously preparing to move on to the real topic of their visit. “We’ve had a break-in.” He stood from his desk, and then lead Sherlock and John across the trading floor to another office. “Sir William’s office—the bank’s former chairman. The room’s been left here like a sort of memorial. Someone broke in last night.”

John glanced at the sturdy door, trying to get a peek through the blinds. “What did they steal?”

“Nothing,” Wilkes said. “Just left a message.” As he unlocked the door with his security card, John shot Sherlock a sideways glance out of the corner of his eye. He didn’t think Wilkes had anything to do with the Jaria Diamond case, and investment bankers weren’t exactly known for hiring assassins with scimitars, but John wouldn’t have put it past Sherlock to break into a secure building and deface an office to make his refusal known. Sherlock’s face was bland, however, with shades of curiosity around the eyebrows and nothing more, so John figured this was unrelated.

The door swung open to reveal a mostly empty office, set apart only by the large painting hung behind the desk and the defacements in neon yellow paint. To the left of the painting was some sort of symbol, almost a figure eight but open on the top, and over the eyes of the portrait (of Sir William Shad, John assumed) was a single horizontal strip that had run, leaving sickly trails of paint dripping down the painting.

)

They had been in the bank for about an hour, by John’s count, and that out of depth feeling had only crescendoed since. He had an advanced from Wilkes with enough zeros on it to cover the bills for quite some time, barring any unforeseen accidents or ‘experiments.’ Admittedly, compared to the weekly profit of the Organization, this was little more than pocket change, but still. That was more money than John had had on his person since Willis had pulled him from being a runner nearly fifteen years ago, and that was a little bit stressful and a wee bit empowering. Sherlock had disappeared back into Sir William Shad’s office for another quick look around, and now he was on the trading floor doing some kind of dancing bob, weave, and scamper that John couldn’t make heads or tails of, but was recording on his phone anyway.

It would be entertaining the next time Sherlock was being a bastard, if nothing else.

John tucked his phone away when Sherlock ducked into one of the offices, and waited patiently until Sherlock came back out and started leading him towards the escalators again. John waited until he was sure no one from the trading floor was within hearing before he said, “Two trips around the world this month. You didn’t ask his secretary, meaning you said that just to irritate him.”

Sherlock grinned, most definitely pleased with himself and a little pleased with John for his own mini-deduction. He didn’t, however, volunteer his reasoning, so John prompted, “How’d you know?”

“Did you see his watch?”

John blinked. “His watch?” It was better than ketchup at least.

“The time was right, but the date was wrong,” Sherlock explained. “Said two days ago. Crossed the dateline twice but didn’t alter it. It was also a new Breitling. Only came out in February.”

Not Sherlock’s most impressive deduction, but still more than John could’ve seen at a glance. “Brilliant.”

)

John watched as Sherlock snapped on a pair of latex gloves, and kept a wary eye on the crime scene techs and photographer as they processed Van Coon’s apartment, his body included. As far as John could tell, there was no sign of forced entry, and it wasn’t like investment bankers and their ilk didn’t off themselves all the time over petty little sums lost and won. With a pistol right next to the body, it seemed like an obvious suicide.

And yet. There wasn’t a note. In John’s experience, which was admittedly rather limited, there was usually a note. Even if it was just a few words scratched on some torn corner of a receipt. It was also very neat, that gunshot to his head. John had watched men put guns to their temples; hands usually shook when pulling the trigger, which often made for failed suicide attempts or rather sharp and sloppy entry wounds.

“D’you think he lost a lot of money?” John asked Sherlock causally. “I mean, suicide is pretty common among city boys.”

“We don’t know that it _was_ a suicide,” Sherlock replied, squatting next to the suitcase off to one side of the bed and beginning to rifle through it. “Been away three days, judging by the laundry.” After another moment of observation, Sherlock pointed out the faint impression on the dirty clothes. “There was something tightly packed inside this case.”

John bent to see the impression more closely. It wasn’t much; maybe an inch or two deep, the same width, and perhaps six or seven inches long. Could’ve very well been a toothbrush, but John had a feeling a toothbrush wasn’t what Van Coon had been killed over.

As Sherlock pried a perfectly folded origami black lotus from Van Coon’s mouth, John bit back a curse, staring at it in horror. He’d told Moran to deny Jim’s request to play The Lady in the Cave, but it seemed that his little protégé had already gone ahead and done whatever the hell he wanted, only thinking to ask permission _after the fact_.

If that Irish madman hadn’t been on his way to somewhere half a world away on a mental health holiday, John would’ve thrown caution to the wind and that stupid little psycho off of Big Ben without a parachute. Honestly, couldn’t he go a day without Jim ruining it?

And just as John thought the day couldn’t get any worse, some baby-faced DI showed up to take control of the scene. Dimmock looked to be fresh out uni, maybe old enough to be a DS, and it was obvious from the stubborn set of his jaw and adamant hands on his hips that he knew very well he looked young, and didn’t appreciate a word of it. Lest of from a consultant who had a very different explanation for why there was a dead man with a bullet hole in his right temple.

John could feel a headache brewing behind his eyes already. Lestrade, at least, knew better than to get offend by the words that generally tumbled unfiltered out of Sherlock’s mouth, and would put up with it long enough to figure out who the murder was and put them behind bars. (John also had done a background check on the poor bloke, and liked what he’d found so far.) Dimmock, it seemed, resented any implication that he wasn’t at the pinnacle of his field, especially when it was from someone who just so happened to be outside the rigid structure of the Yard.

Everything, John imagined, would be so much easier if he could just bribe or threaten everyone to shut up and listen to Sherlock for fifteen or twenty minutes.

Unfortunately, that was as likely as Jim deciding to take a voluntary leap off the side of a building.

)

It was surprisingly easy to leave Sherlock musing over the case at Baker Street the next evening, and John was more than a little surprised to notice that Mycroft had apparently pulled his agents off John’s surveillance detail. Which really was a horrible idea because J.J. had the entire CCTV network in Europe and the UK wrapped around his little finger, but John wasn’t about to look a gifted horse in the mouth. He headed for Regent’s Park since it was later in the day and there would be enough people to act as camouflage.

John forced himself to wander aimlessly for several minutes, gradually going deeper into the park where the bystanders were slightly fewer and more widespread. He dug his encrypted Bluetooth hands-free device out of his pocket, and put it in his ear as he one-handedly typed out Moran’s number on his work phone.

It rang twice before Moran picked up with a lazy drawl of “What’s up, Boss?”

“Enjoying your vacation?” John returned mildly, eyes peeled for any sort of surveillance that might’ve been nosing around for whatever reason, government or otherwise.

Moran laughed. “That’s one word for it. Haven’t left the hotel room since we checked in.” There was some shuffling on the other end, and a muffled question too far away for the phone to pick up. Moran covered the microphone as he replied, but the tone was relaxed and teasing, meaning Jim wasn’t aware of how much trouble he was in. Moran came back on the line after a moment, chuffing quietly, “He claims _that_ is my fault, but I happen to disagree vehemently.”

John made a noncommittal sound.

Moran was quite on the other end for a moment, before there was more shuffling, and a distant squawk of protest followed by the sound of a shutting door. “Jim’s going to go burn down the Sydney Opera House now.” The joke fell flat, which he seemed to realize as he hurried to add, “Shouldn’t be back for an hour.”

“Remember that group of lotuses?”

Moran swore, accompanied by a muffled thump that was probably Moran taking his frustration out on the wall or furniture. “I told him no, Boss,” he insisted. ”I said we were too hot, that bringing someone that unsubtle in was going to go up in flame and that we were liable to go up with them.”

“I know you did,” John soothed, pacing an idle figure eight. “He went ahead and did it anyway, though. What does that tell us, Sebby?”

Moran’s wince at the nickname was nearly audible, despite being on an entirely different continent. “He’s disregarding the command structure.”

“And?”

“And,” Moran bit out, tight and strained with the last threads of his control and the beginnings of fear, “I’ve lost influence over his actions.”

“Very good. Two for two. Would you like to try for three out of three?” asked John blithely.

“He needs to be taken down a peg.”

John grinned, dark and bitter, into the darkening sky at Moran's defeated but resigned tone. “You’re on fire tonight.”

“We’re not killing him,” Moran argued firmly, though there was the slightest tremor of emotion, making it nearly a plea.Moran was, after all, quite attached to his little pet, even if it was a mostly one-sided sentiment that Jim manipulated and indulged in when it struck his fancy.

“No,” John agreed. Killing Jim at this point, while therapeutic, would leave too many loose ends and half-laid plots of mayhem. No, they needed him alive a little longer. “Normally, I’d leave it to you to discipline subordinates, but I think we both agree that wouldn’t be a good idea.” John could almost hear Moran’s teeth grinding together over the speaker. “But I won’t suggest Hale. You and I both know how that would end. Reid has shown remarkable initiative, and is very loyal to the Organization. She has no leanings either way as far as I’ve heard, but has a firm and steady hand with her section.”

Moran mulled over the suggestion for several long moments. “Reid—she’s in charge of IA, isn’t she?”

“Yes.”

“He really fucked up this time, didn’t he?”

John paused his pacing, and took a deep lungful of London evening air. “He’s close to doing something unforgiveable, and you know what happens if he crosses that line.”

“I know,” Moran said quietly. The silence stretched on, and on, and on, until John thought the other man had rang off until Moran asked, “How’s the job search?”

John snorted, turning towards the path since it was rather obvious Moran had no intention of continuing their discussion about Jim. “Piss poor. My flatmate’s too bloody interesting, keeps distracting me from things like finding a way to pay the bills.”

“Figured as much,” Moran admitted with a tired huff. “There’s a position at our surgery in London. Just locum work, but the pay and hours are flexible. We’ve got a lady doctor running it—Doctor Sarah Sawyer. Nice enough, good bedside manner, and knows just enough to look the other way when a GSW comes ‘round the back.”

“And not enough to take one look at me and run away in terror?” John drawled dryly.

Moran chuckled. “Right. She’s not all too big on criminals, though she doesn’t mind the money and the occasional break in monotony.”

“I certainly wouldn’t mind some of that either.”

“I’ll write you a reference letter,” he promised, eager to encourage John’s no doubt fleeting moment of good humour. It wasn’t a surprise really, seeing as Moran was the only thing standing between Jim and an early grave at this point.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who say the chapter that posted last night (which was most certainly not this one), I'm so sorry for how confusing that jump must've been. I thought I'd already posted this chapter and it turned out I hadn't.


	9. Chapter 8

John glanced in the front doors of the surgery Moran had mentioned, surveying this small corner of his dominion. At first glance, it looked perfectly innocuous, but a second glance revealed cameras hidden in the corners of the ceiling, and a few on the waiting area chairs and fake plants. The nurse at the reception desk also glanced up and about a little bit too regularly to be anything but trained in threat containment, and one of the patients had a butterfly knife stuffed down the side of his boot as he idly flipped through a magazine. Not a normal surgery in the least, though it seemed to have a decent queue of average persons.

The fact that it laundered money for and was owned by the Organization was nearly completely unknown. As far Mycroft or anyone else could tell, the surgery was perfectly average.

Thankfully for John though, things wouldn't be too boring while he was on shift, and even if it did get a bit dull, at least he'd be getting a healthy paycheque.

John took a moment to straighten his tie and check his Curriculum Vitae, as well as the letter of recommendation Moran had thoughtfully written to make sure that John wouldn't have any trouble finding locum work while a few of their doctors were otherwise indisposed.

The nurse glanced up from his station as John entered, and called out a professionally cheery, "Welcome, how can I help you?"

Before John could reply a red-haired doctor popped her head out of her office, took one look at John and his folder of papers, and said warmly, "Doctor Watson, I presume. You must be here for your interview."

"Yes," John agreed, entering the woman's office as she held the door open wider. "Lovely waiting area."

She quirked an amused brow, and he was quick to hand over his Curriculum Vitae and Moran's recommendation before she decided to laugh him out the door.

"I suppose it is. Now I must ask, how did you hear about this job opening, Doctor Watson? I hadn't even had time to put an ad out in the paper."

John pulled up his best service smile for Doctor Sawyer—at this point, the woman was unlikely to be anyone but the manager and head of the surgery herself. "An old friend from my army days mentioned there was an opening. There's a letter from him on the bottom."

She was quiet for several moments as she found, opened, and read the letter. Her brows furrowed the tiniest bit and her mouth tightened with worry at the corners, but there were no other indications that the letter unsettled her. John had to mentally applaud Moran's taste in employees, even if Jim left something to be desired. After a moment, Doctor Sawyer set the letter aside. "Well, I suppose you're a bit overqualified. It's just some locum work with two away on holiday and another on maternity leave. Quite," she paused for a moment of thought before settling on, "mundane, for a soldier such as yourself."

"Just a doctor now," John intoned lightly, one corner of his smile kicking up to make his expression seem a bit self-deprecating.

Her expression softened around the edges, but not enough to indicate pity or an overabundance of sympathy. Both of which John hated with a passion rivalled only by the most zealous serial killers.

She glanced through his Curriculum Vitae briefly, and asked, "Anything else you can do?"

 _Fill the Yard's evidence locker with tea and biscuits, shoot a killer cabbie, cause a massacre by going AWOL_..."I learned the clarinet at school."

Doctor Sawyer laughed, which had been his intention, and leaned a little closer, which hadn't been John's intention really; but it had been a while since he'd had some feminine company, let alone a date, so he wasn't at all adverse to playing up his charm and snagging a date, even if she was, technically, his employee.

He figured since she didn't know it, and he wasn't about to use it against her, it wasn't a big enough deal to worry about.

John had just finished the interview, reasonably sure of a date in the near future, when his work mobile rang. His footsteps faltered for a moment, and he glanced around before darting down an alley. "XO" flashed on the screen, and John swore under his breath as he answered, "I swear to god, if someone important isn't dead or dying, or a major project is not about to implode and destroy the Organization, I don't care how useful you are, I will kill you."

"Jim's gone."

John froze. "Say that again."

Moran growled, "Jim's gone. I left for ten minutes to grab food, and when I got back the hotel room was empty. He left everything except the bankcards, and some of his street clothes. I've already called J.J.; the accounts were emptied five minutes ago. More than enough for a fake passport or to be smuggled out of the country."

"You were supposed to watch him," John snapped, forcing himself to keep his voice low as he monitored the foot traffic at the mouths of the alley. "The whole point of sending you off on a bloody holiday was to keep Jim out of the country, and away from the Organization. It was meant to distract him from whatever plot he had to cause anarchy in Britain, Sebby. You had one job, goddamn it, and you managed to screw even that up!"

"I'll find him, Boss, and—"

"No," John stated firmly. "He's so damn close to that line, Moran, and I'm not having him take you with him. You are going to stay in Sydney, and you are going to stay there until Reid's team finds that little shit. Then you're going to go to a safe house in Dublin, and we are going to have words once I can find the opportunity to arrive without undue scrutiny."

"Yes, sir," Moran gritted out reluctantly.

John sighed, rubbing at his temples in an attempt to sooth his latest headache. "It's not personal, Moran. I'm not doing this because I like to force my employees into line. I do this because if Jim is acting outside of the command structure—a command structure that took years of careful planning and concise shows of force to implement—others will attempt to follow his example. I will not allow all my hard work and careful planning to descend into anarchy."

"I know, Boss," Moran said plaintively. "But I know Jim better than anyone in the Organization—"

"And he knows you just as well, Moran. I understand; you want to be involved because you're already emotionally involved. But the moment you get involved, Jim knows every move in our playbook."

Moran sighed heavily, no doubt weary and worried over Jim's antics. "It's my fault he's running wild. He should've worked his way up through the ranks, but I insisted he start out on top. He thinks he's so fucking clever and special in that big head of his, and I let him go on thinking like that."

"You fucked up," John agreed. "But so did I. I never imagined I would ever say this, and I hope to god I never have to say it again: Hale was right, and we should've listened to his opinion. I should've fought you, but I let myself be distracted by RAMC and Afghanistan."

Moran snorted tiredly. "Well, I think we can be forgiven for that since within five minutes of meeting Jim, Hale started wailing on him out of nowhere."

John sighed, rubbing tiredly at his brow as he complained, "We've already had this conversation. Hale is unstable on the best of days, and Jim is an instigator of the highest order. Putting them in a room together is like putting matches next to a powder keg, which is why we make sure they're never within more than thirty feet of each other, a mile when either is armed."

"Let's just hope Jim doesn't decide to try his luck with Hale."

John scrubbed at his face. "He should be smarter than that, but the last few weeks have me doubting how smart he actually is."

"Not as smart as he thinks he is, that's for sure," Moran replied.

"Damn right. Now if that's all, I need to get back to Baker Street."

Moran hung up without any sort of goodbye, and with a world-weary sigh, John stuffed his work mobile back into the pocket of his coat, but not before shooting a quick update to Reid on the Jim situation. She'd handle finding Jim, and adjust his punishment accordingly.

Hopefully, they would manage to sequester him before he did something vastly stupid.

)

Sherlock was once again laid out on the couch, eyes closed and hands steepled under his chin, when John arrived back at the flat. John shucked his jacket and, as he laid it over the arm of his chair, Sherlock spoke up, "I said, 'Could you pass me a pen?'"

John glanced around, making sure he was the only one who was in the flat and Sherlock wasn't talking to some ninja or something hiding in the curtains. "What? When?"

"'Bout an hour ago."

John shook his head and sighed, unsurprised that Sherlock seemed to have completely ignored what John had told him just that morning. It was like dealing with a child, honestly. He wondered how Moran had ever seen past the immaturity and pouting to find any sort of attractive human being in Jim. Seriously, some days John wondered how Jim had survived in the Irish mob with that kind of entitled attitude.

Still, John picked up a pen and tossed it towards Sherlock absently. He didn't look to see if Sherlock caught it, but Sherlock's reflexes had proven to be nearly as fast as his mind so John wasn't particularly worried about hitting an eye.

"I went for that job at the surgery, remember?" John asked, fitting himself into his arm chair and getting his laptop. He had date ideas to research after all.

"How was it?"

John glanced at his flatmate, and contemplated his answer. It had been somewhat entertaining to compare interesting or odd past patients with Doctor Sawyer—Sarah, really—and the surgery's locum work would be more beneficial professionally speaking, than if John worked at a different surgery. And getting fired would probably take some kind of act from God, considering John owned the surgery. The only blight had been the phone call afterwards. "It's great."

Sherlock eyed him suspiciously, but directed the conversation towards the photos on the wall. "Come have a look."

John considered briefly staying right here in his chair, forcefully exorcising his rage through covert meditation, but figured if it had anything to do with the case, it was worth looking at, if only briefly.

Christ, John wanted this to be over already and it had only barely begun.

)

John was more than happy to fade into the background as Sherlock made DI Dimmock look like an idiot for not taking Sherlock's word as gospel in front of the entire Yard, and then again when they arrived at the flat of the dead journalist. He wondered absently, as Sherlock poked around with Dimmock dogging at his heels, what the purpose of this death had been. Admittedly, Lukis hadn't been a fairly renowned reporter, but the death of anyone related to the media was enough to spark a dark glee that there had been some story floating about that someone thought was worth killing for. And if it was worth killing for, well, wouldn't the story be wonderfully juicy and scandalous? John wondered briefly if the Black Lotus had any idea of the sort of hornet nest they'd inadvertently disturbed.

With a quiet snort, John valiantly resisted the urge to crush the small, delicately folded black lotus under his heel, and let himself be mildly amused by Dimmock's incredibility and naivety. After twenty years in a criminal syndicate, thirteen of which he'd spent running the damn thing, there was very little that still surprised John, as far as the methods criminals used went. It probably didn't hurt that he had a few gymnasts on his Theft Taskforce in his White Collar division, at least half of which had been recruited away from Olympic teams worldwide and had never even entertained the idea of crime until John presented it on a shiny silver platter of enticing thrills.

He missed going out into the field to give his personal picks the recruitment spiel actually. (Jim didn't count because a) John hadn't wanted to pick him in the first place and b) it's nowhere near as fun when the recruit was already a criminal.) Maybe he'd look into doing that again once he was off Big Brother's radar, though he'd have to leave most of the psychopaths off the roster until the Organization's fame in certain circles died down a bit.

John shelved the thought for later consideration as Sherlock led the way downstairs into a cab.

)

John had his mind occupied with the logistics of arranging Jim's punishment, the cipher he hoped to decode before Sherlock so he could do some damage control (if that was even possible this late in the game), evaluating Jim's motives for letting the Black Lotus run wild without supervision, and strategies to minimize the exposure of the Organization, so he could be forgiven for staring dumbly at the can of spray paint Raz had shoved into his hand. Getting caught by the Community Support Officer was just embarrassing, especially for a man like John, and he'd gotten a bloody ASBO too. Normally, John wouldn't have gotten worked up over that last little fact as J.J was more than willing to work his computer magic so it was as though the ASBO had never happened in the first place. But with Mycroft lurking around, John had to play the good little citizen and actually go to court.

A waste of time if there ever was one.

So John was a little cranky when he got back to the flat, just a smidgen really, and felt perfectly justified to slam the street door closed behind him, because he did, on occasion, believe in giving people a warning when he was having a bad day. (He was relieved though that Mrs. Hudson appeared to be out as her thunderous expression would've compromised his furious momentum.) Sherlock—surprise, surprise—was unconcerned when John stomped up to the flat, nose stuck in a book.

"You've been gone a while," Sherlock observed absently, not even bothering to glance up.

John bit back a snarl, flexing his hands in and out of fists to work off some of his tension. "Yeah, well, you know how it is. Custody sergeants don't like to be hurried, do they?" he said, smiling tightly as he started to pace. Working off his anger with a little movement was much safer than allowing it to simmer too long. John didn't exactly have the luxury of jetting off to faraway lands riddled with an unruly criminal class anymore. (Mostly because Big Brother was watching, but also because John had had enough temper tantrums over the past decade to put most of the unruly scum of the world's underbelly in their place.)

"Just formalities really: fingerprints, charge sheet," John continued sardonically cheery, even as he appreciated the irony. "I've got to be in Magistrates Court on Tuesday."

"What?" asked Sherlock inattentively.

John ground his teeth, repeating carefully, "Me, Sherlock, in court on Tuesday. They're giving me an ASBO!" Which was beyond unbelievable, seeing as he hadn't actually vandalized anything. Some deity or incarnation of fate somewhere was laughing like a bloody hyena over this no doubt. Framed for a misdemeanour was not what John had expected when he imagined being on trial. He'd expected something a little less...boring. Like murder or grand larceny. Maybe even extortion if the prosecutors were desperate.

And here John was, outwitted by a bloody _child_. He wasn't sure whether he wanted to murder this "Raz" for his audacity, or try to tempt the boy into his network of misguided youths. At the moment, neither option was safe enough to risk it, but he stored the thought away for a rainy day after Sherlock Holmes was nothing more than a memory.

Sherlock, who John had realized rather quickly wasn't listening in the least, replied, "Good. Fine."

Still, John couldn't help but add, "You want to tell your little pal he's welcome to go and own up any time." Assuming Mycroft didn't intervene in an attempt to gain leverage for a later favour, of course.

He started to shrug off his jacket, intent on getting off his feet and settling in for a nice afternoon of watching cat videos interspersed with virtual walkthroughs of a few museums, casinos, foreign military bases, and mansions so he could start laying the groundwork for heists three or four years in the making. Sherlock, in a manner John was becoming distressfully familiar with, pulled the jacket back up John's arms.

"What are you doing?" John demanded as his mad flatmate steered him back towards the door.

Sherlock replied calmly, "I need you to go to the police station."

John stared at Sherlock. "I was just at the police station, you mad bugger." He'd also rather never go back because every time he walked in, there was a part of him convinced he wasn't going to walk back out, not on his own two feet.

"Ask about the journalist," Sherlock continued as if John had never spoken.

John swore under his breath, wondering why the hell he'd ever thought this flat arrangement was a good idea. Really, it would've been easier just to win the lottery a couple of times, or go vacation in the Cayman Islands for a while. He was getting mad in his old age. That was the only plausible reason he could think of.

Sherlock grabbed his coat from the back of the door, shrugging it on as he explained, "His personal effects will have been impounded. Get hold of his diary, or something that will tell us his movements." He steered them downstairs, and out onto the street. "Gonna go see Van Coon's P.A. If we retrace their steps, somehow they'll coincide." Without further ado, Sherlock walked off down the street.

 _No shit, Sherlock_ , John grumbled internally. He'd bet a pretty penny it was somewhere in Chinatown as the Black Lotus, while often reckless, were quite predictable in the locations of their drop sites and bases. For a smuggling ring, they were awful sloppy, and John had only ever used them as a last resort or for a cheap job he wouldn't mind seeing go south.

A taxi turned the corner, and John stretched out a hand to hail it. As it pulled to the kerb, he noticed a woman on the other side of the street, taking a picture. She was an older Chinese woman, petite and wearing dark sunglasses even though it was overcast. He watched her from the corner of his eye as he bent down level to the taxi's window.

"Scotland Yard," John told the cabbie, climbing into the back of the taxi. He glanced furtively at the other side of the street, but the woman was gone.

John flexed his left hand, wary as a brief burst of adrenaline tingled along his nerves. It seemed that General Shan had decided to come in person, and that boded well for no one. The Organization and Sherlock especially.

)

John peered at the rows of porcelain cats and wondered if this was what the first circle of hell looked like. The figurines were eerie, painted eyes staring directly into your soul with one paw raised. He politely declined, several times, when the shopkeeper asked if he was interested in one.

He'd rather have a severed headache in the fridge in all honesty.

The dainty cups were better, though perhaps a bit dull. He picked one up to examine the design, and turned it over to check the price. Harry's birthday was coming up soon, and she liked knickknacks. Not to mention she already had a mismatch of set cups so one more wouldn't make much of a difference.

John stilled for a moment as he recognized the symbol stuck on the bottom of the cup, a near carbon copy of the one painted in Sir William's office. "Sherlock," John called evenly.

Once Sherlock had come close enough, John showed him the bottom of the cup. "That's the symbol. Exactly the same as the cipher."

He had no idea what it meant, though it was presumably a number, but it was one step closer to unlocking the cipher, which was one step closer to stopping the Black Lotus. It was unfortunate Sherlock now had that information as well, but John could probably use that brilliant mind to stay one step ahead. This flatmate arrangement might even be profitable for once.

John trailed after Sherlock as he walked through China town, examining the signs printed in Chinese and English to decipher the exact numbers represented by the Chinese symbols. John listened with half an ear as Sherlock relayed the numbers corresponding to the graffiti in Sir William's office, sweeping the area for surveillance. He spotted Shan a few feet away, phone raised again, but she disappeared back into the crowd before he could determine who exactly she was surveying: him or Sherlock.

If Sherlock, that was worrisome but nothing John needed to deal with just yet. But if she was watching and taking picture of _him_ , then he would need to make a few calls, at least one to an assassin.

Unravelling Jim's plans was second to remaining anonymous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now this is the end of what I've got written so far. For anyone who saw the Chapter 7-that-wasn't-actually-Chapter 7 last night, this might be a tad familiar. But the real Chapter 7 is now up. Sorry for the confusion.
> 
> Chapter 9 is in the works, but between uni, dealing with all of RL's lovely issues, and other projects, I have no idea when it'll be done and ready for public consumption.

**Author's Note:**

> While the post on ff.net has the prologue + eight chapters up already, I'm not going to post them all at once here since I'm in the process of cleaning them up a little bit. The edited chapters will probably be posted weekly, depending on my homework load and RL commitments.


End file.
